Hunter
I’m late on purpose. Let them wait. Let them stare.
The door bangs open harder than I meant it to, the cheap metal frame rattling against the exposed brick like it’s personally offended.
Every head snaps toward me. Six or seven of them, same tired, hollow-eyed bunch as always.
I let the silence stretch for a second, enjoying the way the room feels suddenly smaller.
Off to the side, a table holds a sad spread of a half empty box of glazed donuts and burnt smelling coffee, next to styrofoam cups, and a sad stack of powdered creamer packets. The place smells like coffee, sugar, and that faint mildew scent that always seems to cling to old buildings in the city.
I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me with a dull thud. My eyes drag across the circle until they land on the empty chair waiting for me.
And then on the kid sitting directly across from it.
Golden curls. Soft, light-blue eyes that are almost gray, like smoke after the fire’s gone out.
Clean-shaven face that still looks like it has never needed to know what a razor is for.
Black eyeliner. Chipped dark nail polish on the fingers currently resting on his ripped jeans.
Fishnet peeking out from under the tears in the denim.
And a baggy sweater that swallows his whole frame, making him look even smaller. Younger.
Too fucking soft.
He looks like someone who’s never had his skin melt off in a fire. Like someone who cries at sad songs and thinks the world can be fixed with talk and hugs and fucking nail polish.
I hate him on sight.
I drop into the empty chair, legs spread wide, arms crossed tight over my chest so the fresh bandages pull. The pain flares hot and good. I might be becoming addicted to it.
The facilitator gives me a warm smile; he’s a man who appears to be in his late to mid-forties. He has short brown hair, neatly styled, and a clean-shaven face. He honestly looks like he could be mixing his own kool-aid. “You must be Hunter. Welcome. I’m Tim Peterson. We’re glad you’re here.”
I scoff. “Yeah, I bet you are. Court-ordered and everything. Real thrilled to be part of the club.”
A couple people shift. The soft blond kid across from me doesn’t. He only watches me with those smoke-blue eyes, head slightly tilted, as though I’m some fucking puzzle for him to solve. It makes my skin crawl.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. “We don’t focus on how anyone got here. Only on what they need while they’re here. Would you like to introduce yourself?”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let my voice come out low and mean.
“Name’s Hunter. I’m a fireman. I lost my partner in a fire six months ago that I wish killed me too.
Last week I tried to make it happen. Now the court says I have to sit in this circle and pretend that talking about it is gonna unfuck my life.
” I jerk my chin toward the blond kid. “That about cover it, or you want me to cry, too?”
He lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow but doesn’t respond. His painted fingers twitch once on his thigh as though he wants to reach out and fix something on me. And it pisses me off.
“Thank you for sharing, Hunter,” Tim says, still calm as ever. “We’re not here to perform pain. This is only a space to feel it before releasing it.”
I snort, loud and ugly. “Right. Feeling it will allow me to release it. I live with it every day, and it still hasn’t gone away. Six months of waking up choking on smoke that isn’t there, and you think fucking therapy is gonna magically make it disappear?”
The blond kid is still watching me, and I silently snarl at him. A smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t look away. I fucking amuse him? He’s too fucking pretty. Boys shouldn’t be as pretty as he is. And I shouldn’t be noticing that shit about some damaged kid in therapy.
Tim nods like my outburst is perfectly reasonable. “That’s valid, Hunter. The pain doesn’t just vanish because we want it to. But carrying it alone makes it heavier. That’s why we’re here.”
I roll my eyes and lean back hard enough in my chair it creaks. “Heavier. Try killing your boyfriend and have your own skin melt off your body. And then you can tell me about heavier.”
The kid’s fingers twitch again. His lips part as if he’s about to say something kind and gentle, and I already know I’m going to hate whatever comes out of his mouth.
I cut my eyes straight to him, my voice dropping into something meaner.
“What about you, twink? You gonna sit there staring at me all night with your pretty nails and your fuck-me eyeliner, or you got some trauma porn of your own to share? Let’s hear it.
Bet it’s real cute compared to burning alive. ”
The room goes quiet. A lady shifts uncomfortably next to him, reaching out to grip his hand softly. Tim opens his mouth, probably to redirect, but the blond kid only holds my gaze.
“Conversion therapy, actually,” he says, his voice so fucking soft it feels like a caress.
The words hang there, gentle and matter-of-fact, like he just told us the weather.
Conversion therapy.
I stare at him. He looks like he should be dancing in some club with friends, not sitting in a circle talking about being tortured for being gay.
And yet he says it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t still cut him open.
Something ugly twists in my gut. Part of me wants to laugh in his face, mock him for thinking his church bullshit compares to dragging a charred body out of rubble. The other part—the part I hate more—feels the words as they hook behind my ribs.
Because, for one sick second, I wonder what they did to him to make that soft voice stay so steady.
I scoff anyway, loud and cruel, needing to shove the feeling away. “Conversion therapy? That’s your big trauma? Some backwoods preachers praying the gay away? Cute. Real fucking cute. At least they didn’t set you on fire.”
The lady next to him squeezes his hand tighter. Someone else clears their throat. Tim finally steps in, voice still calm but firmer now.
“Hunter, we don’t compare pain in this space. Everyone’s experience is valid.”
“Valid,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Right.”
I’m a bastard. I know it. Now everyone in this room knows it, too.
But I can’t stop looking at him. Even as Tim moves on to his next target, I barely hear a word of what anyone else says.
The kid stays engaged, nodding gently, offering soft words of support when someone else shares.
His painted fingers stay steady. That soft voice never wavers. It pisses me off even more.
By the time the session ends, I’m so angry I wish I could take it out on something. Because if this soft little twink, with his painted nails and gentle voice, can sit here after whatever hell they put him through and not look like he wants to kill himself, it means he’s stronger than me.
And I fucking hate that.
People start milling around like it’s some goddamn social hour—grabbing shitty coffee, chatting quietly, hugging.
I stay planted in my chair, shoulders tight, jaw locked.
The blond kid stands up, baggy sweater slipping off one shoulder, exposing soft skin underneath.
He looks even smaller on his feet. Breakable.
I can’t help it. I push up and cut across the room before I can talk myself out of it.
He’s reaching for his bag when I step into his space, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. Up close, he smells like something clean and sweet—vanilla and berries maybe. It makes my stomach twist.
“Nice story, twink,” I say, voice low and mean. “Real inspiring. You can survive praying.”
He doesn’t step back or flinch. Those smoke-blue eyes just look up at me, the eyeliner making them look even softer.
“My name’s Charlie,” he says quietly. “Not twink. And it was more than praying.”
The correction hits me hard. For half a second, I almost apologize. Almost. Then the rage surges back harder.
“Whatever you say, Charlie,” I spit, leaning in just a little more, towering over him. “Keep staring at me like you can fix what’s broken. See how well that works when you realize some of us aren’t worth saving.”
I turn on my heel before he can answer, shoulder screaming with the movement, and shove my way out the door into the cool night air.
My hands are shaking. My chest feels too tight.
And all I can see behind my eyelids is golden curls, light-blue eyes, and chipped black nail polish that somehow didn’t tremble once while I tried to tear him down.
Fuck.
I hate him.