Chapter 23 Hunter #2
“Yeah, thanks. Appreciate it.” I made it to the truck without looking back, even though every part of me burned to. Driving home felt wrong. Like I’d left something vital behind, like I’d left her behind.
But I trusted Spencer. She would be okay.
My hands gripped the wheel tight enough to ache, the leather warm under my palms. The roads blurred into one long stretch of gray, the late afternoon light cutting sharp lines across the street as I drove.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was wound so tight my jaw ached.
The house was dark. I went inside, dropped the keys on the counter, and paced the length of the kitchen.
Then the living room. Back again. Every step felt like it should be taking me somewhere, back to her, back to what I’d left behind.
But it didn’t. It just circled me right back into my own frustration.
A soft, plaintive meow curled out of the silence, and I looked down to find Ozzy weaving around my ankles. His yellow eyes tracked me as I paced, his tail flicking with every turn. Every time I paused, he’d butt his head against my shin, insistent, like he could sense the storm rattling inside me.
“Hey, buddy,” I muttered, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. He purred, loud and hopeful, but when I moved away, he trailed after me, meowing again—a little accusing, a little worried.
I tried sitting on the couch, elbows braced on my knees, staring at the floor.
It lasted two minutes before I was up again, restless energy buzzing in my veins.
My hands itched, wanting to fix something, to put myself to work, but all I could picture was her face when she caught me in that cooler.
That flicker of guilt in her eyes. The way she let me go without reaching for me.
I wanted to be angry. It would’ve been easier than this slow, gnawing ache. But there was no anger in me. Just the truth: I couldn’t be near her without my feelings spilling out, written all over my face. And she wasn’t ready to see them.
I had to be okay with waiting for her to feel the way I did. Or lose her.
So waiting was what I would do.
Ozzy, undeterred by my wandering, leaped onto the back of the couch with fluid feline certainty.
He settled above me, his small body crouched like a sentry, yellow eyes fixed and unblinking.
Every time I shifted, he pivoted too, tail draped and twitching, a silent question mark in the dim room.
I slumped against the cushions, feeling the weight of his gaze—a gentle pressure, a quiet urging not to run from the moment.
I’d never felt this kind of pain before—wanting what I couldn’t have when I knew it was everything right in the world.
The hours dragged. I reheated leftovers I couldn’t taste. I tried a beer but left it sweating on the table half-full. I even flipped on the TV, but the noise grated, and I shut it off again.
By midnight, I was stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes.
All I could see and feel were memories of her voice, her eyes, her touch.
Recalling how it felt to kiss her for the first time burned hot in my chest, so vivid it kept me awake long after I finally closed my eyes.
Somewhere in between one restless thought and the next, Ozzy climbed down from his perch.
He pressed his warm, solid weight against my chest, spinning in a tight circle before settling with his head tucked into the hollow of my neck.
His purrs vibrated through my bones—steady, comforting.
I curled an arm around him, holding him close, letting the rhythm of his breathing coax the frantic edge from my own.
For a while, I just lay there, listening to the quiet buzz of his purr and the echo of the thoughts I couldn’t quite get out of my head.
I’d waited years for her. I could wait longer. But tonight, I let myself feel it—the hollow ache of walking away from the only person who had ever felt like mine, like home. I knew sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.
The ceiling was just as blank at three a.m. as it had been at midnight. At five, I gave up pretending sleep was coming and dragged myself into the shower. The water beat down hard and hot, but it didn’t wash anything away.
By the time I walked into the shop, the early light was spilling across the gravel, thin and gray, the kind of dawn that made everything look half-finished.
Deacon was already in the bay, grease on his hands, head bent under the hood of an old Chevy.
Spencer leaned against the workbench with a cup of coffee, watching me like I’d already given myself away.
“You look like hell,” Spencer said, voice dry.
“Thanks,” I muttered, dropping my jacket on the back hook.
Deacon glanced up and wiped his hands on a rag. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Didn’t,” I said. And that was all I gave them.
I could feel their eyes on me, but they didn’t push. We’d been raised knowing when to pry and when to leave well enough alone. Still, Spencer’s face softened into something quieter, something knowing, and Deacon’s jaw tightened like he already had an idea where my head had been all night.
I threw myself into work—bolts, grease, the steady rhythm of tools in my hands.
But the motions didn’t quiet my thoughts.
Every turn of the wrench, every scrape of metal just brought me back to her.
The way she’d looked at me last night. Like she wanted to let me in but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Like my feelings were too much for her right now, and she wasn’t ready to carry them.
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it stuck.
Deacon passed me a socket set, watching me carefully. “Hunter,” he said finally, low. “You don’t have to tell us, but don’t burn yourself out trying to carry something alone.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
By midmorning, the shop was loud—air compressors hissing, classic rock spilling from the radio, Deacon cursing at a stripped bolt—but underneath it all, I still heard her.