Page 55 of Hunter

I don’t deserve to put my hands on him.

But fuck…I want to.

I want to so badly it scares me.

I pull out my phone and open our chat. The last message I sent him stares back at me.

Me: Goodnight, beautiful.

I type something. Delete it. Type again.

Me: You still up?

I don’t send it. I stare at the unsent message until the screen goes dark.

Robby’s voice comes back, quieter this time, almost tired.

You’re gonna ruin him, Hunter. Just like you ruined me.

I drop the phone on the couch and drag both hands through my hair. Maybe he’s right. And I don’t want to be the reason another person dies.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep showing up in his life like some shadow, feeding off his light while I drag all my smoke and ash behind me. He’s already got enough darkness. He doesn’t need mine, too.

I stand up and start pacing the small apartment. The resolve settles in slow and heavy, like concrete pouring into my chest.

I pick up my phone again and open our chat one last time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a long time.

Me: I had a good time today. But I think it’s better if we keep our distance outside of group. You deserve better than what I can give you right now.

I stare at the message for almost a full minute, thumb shaking.

Then I delete it.

I’ll tell him tomorrow. Or the next day. When I’m not still tasting him on my tongue and feeling the way he shivered in my arms.

I toss the phone onto the coffee table and collapse back onto the couch, arm thrown over my eyes.

I need to stay away.

No more “just happening” to be in the same places. No more walking him home. No more kissing him on his doorstep like I have any right to taste something that good. If I keep this up, I’ll only end up breaking him the same way I broke everything else I’ve ever touched.

But the second I try to lock that decision in place, a memory slams into me so hard I stop breathing.

We were dancing.

Back when things were still good—or at least when I was still lying to myself that they were. Some shitty little club downtown, bass thumping so loud it rattled my ribs. Robby had been laughing, drunk and beautiful, grinding against me like we were the only two people in the room. His hands were in my hair, mouth on my neck, whispering filthy promises between songs. I remember thinking this is it. This is what love feels like.

Then his phone lit up on the bar where he’d left it.

Prism.

The hookup app.

I saw the notification before he could hide the screen—some guy named “Jace92” saying my place or yours? with a shirtless picture attached.

I asked him about it. Calm at first. Then not calm.

Robby turned on me like I’d stabbed him.