Page 69 of Hunter

Hunter’s expression softens, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face for a second before he leans down and kisses me again. This kiss is slower, deeper—less frantic hunger and more something tender and aching. His body presses me into the mattress, and I wrap my arms around his back, holding him there.

We stay like that for a while, just kissing lazily, hands roaming slowly over skin, learning each other in the soft morning light. Every so often he pulls back to look at me, like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, real and naked and wanting him.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs against my lips. “You make me want things I shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” I ask, brushing my fingers along his jaw.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just kisses me again, slower this time, as if he’s trying to say it without speaking.

Eventually, we settle back into a tangle of limbs, my head on his chest, his hand stroking lazy circles on my lower back. I feel safe. Wanted. Seen in a way that scares me and thrills me at the same time.

Sofia, of course, chooses that exact peaceful moment to launch herself onto the bed like a furry missile. She marches straight up Hunter’s body, plants herself firmly on his chest between us, and lets out a loud, demanding meow right in our faces.

Hunter groans, eyes still closed. “Your demon cat is trying to kill the mood.”

But even as he grumbles, his hand comes up to scratch under her chin. Sofia immediately starts purring like a broken engine and headbutts his jaw, clearly pleased with herself for interrupting.

I laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest.

“Welcome to domestic life with me,” I murmur. “Breakfast is non-negotiable, and she’s the boss.”

Hunter huffs a laugh, still petting her. “Guess I’ll have to get used to sharing you.”

I tilt my head up to look at him, smiling.

“You okay with that?”

He looks up at me, eyes warm and steady, his hand absently petting Sofia.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m okay with that.”

Chapter 28

Hunter

It’s only been ten days since that night in his apartment, and I’m already losing my mind.

I tell myself I’m not obsessed. That it’s just… attachment. That after months of nothing but Robby’s ghost and cheap whiskey, it makes sense I’d latch onto the first good thing that feels real. But that’s a lie. I know it is.

When Charlie’s with me, the world is quieter. Robby’s voice fades to a low static. I can breathe. But the second he’s not; when he’s at work, or in a pole class, or just out existing in the city without me, the static comes roaring back.

Look at you, Robby sneers in my head as I sit alone in my apartment. Waiting around like a pathetic dog for some eyeliner-wearing kid to throw you scraps. You really think he’s yours?

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white.

He’s not wrong. I’ve started showing up at the art supply store when his shift ends. I walk him home almost every night. I text him too much. I check his location when he takes too long to answer (he gave it to me willingly, but still). And every time he laughs at something on his phone or mentions going out with Lucy, that ugly possessive thing in my chest flares hot and sharp.

Charlie jokes about it. Calls me his “personal shadow” or his “very dedicated stray.” He says it with that crooked smile like it’s cute.

It’s not cute. It’s dangerous. I know that.

But I can’t stop.

Today, I’m sitting in a sterile waiting room downtown, waiting for my meeting with the judge overseeing my court-mandated therapy. My leg won’t stop bouncing. The scars on my shoulder pull tight under my shirt, a constant reminder of everything I fuck up.

Tim is already inside with the judge. He told me yesterday he wouldn’t share anything specific from group.

“I’m not here to feed the court ammunition,” he’d said calmly. “I’m here to help you. That stays between us unless you’re a danger to yourself or others.”