Page 70 of Hunter

I appreciate it. I do. But it still feels like I’m walking into a trap.

When they finally call me in, the judge—a stern woman in her fifties—looks me over like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the court’s time.

“Mr. Hale,” she says, folding her hands. “Mr. Peterson has submitted his report. He says you’ve been attending regularly and participating to some degree. That’s… better than we expected, given your initial hostility.”

I nod stiffly.

She continues, “He also noted that you appear to be forming connections in group. That’s positive.”

My mind immediately flashes to Charlie—golden curls, smudged eyeliner, the way he looked spread out and moaning under me last night. I clench my jaw.

Tim sits quietly beside me, calm as ever.

The judge leans forward. “I’m inclined to continue your requirement for now, but with more flexibility. Bi-monthly check-ins instead of weekly. Keep showing progress, Mr. Hale. I’d hate to see you back in front of me for non-compliance.”

I mutter a “Yes, ma’am” and get the hell out of there as fast as I can.

Tim walks out with me into the hallway.

“You’re doing well,” he says gently. “But I noticed some… intensity lately. Especially around one particular member.”

I freeze.

Tim just gives me that knowing, gentle smile. “Be careful, Hunter. Connection is good. But obsession isn’t healing.”

I don’t answer him.

I just pull out my phone the second I’m outside and text Charlie.

Me: Just left the courthouse. You free tonight?

His reply comes almost immediately, with a little heart emoji that makes something dark and warm twist in my chest.

Charlie: For you? Always.

I stare at the message, thumb hovering.

Robby’s voice slithers back in, cold and mocking. Look how fast he answers you. Probably answers a lot of guys that fast.

I shove the phone in my pocket and start walking toward Charlie’s neighborhood. I know I should give him space. I know I’m becoming the kind of possessive that isn’t healthy.

But the thought of him out there, smiling at other people, letting other people see that bright, soft version of him…it makes me want to keep him close.

Really fucking close.

Even if it means I’m slowly becoming the exact kind of monster I swore I’d never be again.

I stop at the little Thai place on 15th that Charlie always talks about—the one with the drunken noodles he swears are life-changing. I order extra spicy, the way he likes it, plus the mango sticky rice he gets every single time. The woman behind the counter smiles at me like she recognizes me now. I’ve been here three times this week alone.

I’m becoming predictable. Pathetic.

But the thought of showing up empty-handed feels worse.

By the time I reach his building, my chest is tight with that ugly mix of want and suspicion that’s been growing like mold since the night he let me edge him until he cried. We still haven’t fucked. Not really. He’s let me suck him off, let me finger him open, let me grind against him until we both come, but every time I’ve tried to push further, he’s gently redirected me.

It’s starting to eat at me.

I knock on his door, bag of food in hand.