Hunter
Three days out of that fucking hospital and the city already feels like it’s trying to choke me.
I spent the first day scrubbing my apartment until my shoulder screamed and the carpet was raw from how hard I attacked the dried vomit.
The second day I went to my court-ordered therapy and then came back and drank until the edges blurred.
Today I actually went to PT like a good little patient, then came straight back and collapsed on the futon.
The knock on the door comes just after six.
I know who it is before I even open it. Only one person in my life would show up unannounced.
Mike stands there in civilian clothes, holding a six-pack and looking like he’s bracing for a fight. “Heard you were out. Figured I’d swing by, see if you needed anything.”
I slap the mask on so fast it almost cracks.
I grin, easy and familiar, the same one I’ve been wearing since I was a probie. “Mike! Come on in, man. You didn’t have to bring beer, but I’m not gonna turn it down.”
He steps inside, eyes scanning the place as if he’s looking for evidence of a crime. The carpet still has faint stains no matter how hard I scrubbed. The empty bottles are gone, but the air still smells faintly of all the cleaning agents I used.
“You look…better than last time I saw you,” he says carefully. “Shoulder holding up?”
I take the six-pack from him and head for the kitchenette, popping two bottles open.
“It’s fine. PT this morning was a bitch, but I’m doing the exercises.
Doc says full range in a few weeks if I don’t fuck it up.
” I hand him a beer and clink mine against it.
“This is basically a vacation. Paid time off, no alarms at three in the morning, no captain riding my ass. Living the dream.”
Mike doesn’t laugh. He takes a long pull from the bottle and watches me too closely. “Cap said the court ordered you to that trauma group. New Light or whatever. How’s that going?”
I shrug with the good shoulder, keeping the grin locked in place.
“First session was last night. Bunch of people sitting in a circle talking about their feelings. Real uplifting stuff. I told them I lost my partner in a fire and almost took two more guys with me last week. They seemed real impressed.”
He winces. “Jesus, Hunter…”
“What? It’s the truth.” I take a long swallow, the beer cold and bitter. “Look, I’m fine. Therapy’s just another box to check so they’ll let me back on the truck. I’ll sit there, nod at the right times, and be back on shift before you know it.”
Mike sets his bottle down, expression serious. “You don’t have to do this alone, man. If you need rides to PT, someone to talk to, hell—even if you just want company so you’re not sitting in this apartment staring at the walls…call me. We’re family. Robby would’ve—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. I dial it back fast, forcing the grin wider. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’m good. Just need to knock out the PT and the group shit, and I’ll be back on the line. You don’t have to babysit me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, reluctant. “Alright. But the offer stands. Anytime.”
We finish the beers in mostly silence. I keep the mask up the whole time—joking about old calls, giving him shit about his latest Tinder disaster, laughing at the right moments.
When he finally leaves, clapping me on the good shoulder and telling me to take it easy, I close the door behind him and let the grin slide off my face like dead skin.
The apartment feels too quiet again.
I drop onto the futon, shoulder throbbing from PT.
And like I’ve done since last night, my thoughts go back to the first session at New Light.
Replaying the way that blond kid with the golden curls and painted nails looked at me as though he could actually see every scar I am trying to hide.
And how soft and gentle his voice was even when I baited him by calling him names.
Even now, something twists inside my chest that has nothing to do with the burns.
I really hate that I keep thinking about him.
But at the same time, Robby’s voice is a little quieter when I do.
Pushing myself back up, my shoulder protests, and I grab another beer from the fridge and crack it open. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on my pain meds.
The first swallow burns going down, but I know it will help dull the edge just enough. I lean back against the futon, bottle dangling from my fingers, and let the silence press in. In the past, Robby would have had music playing just to break it up.
We’d laugh and dance and fuck until we were breathless. I miss those nights the most when my ears ring with the nothingness that has been left behind.
I let a memory wash over me. Welcoming it with open arms.
Robby’s laugh fills the old apartment we shared in the East Village, the one with the shitty radiator and the window that never closed right.
He’s got that ridiculous playlist on—old-school R&B mixed with whatever new shit he found on TikTok—and he’s dancing in the middle of the living room like no one’s watching.
Golden light from the cheap lamp catches in his hair, turning it almost bronze.
He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but my old FDNY T-shirt that hangs loose on his narrower frame, and he’s singing off-key at the top of his lungs.
“Come on, Hunter!” he calls, grabbing my hand and yanking me off the couch. “You’re not allowed to be this stiff after a shift. Dance with me, asshole.”
I pretend to resist, but I’m already laughing, letting him pull me into the middle of the room.
His hands slide around my waist, warm and sure, and we move together like idiots—no rhythm, just joy.
He smells like the citrus soap he always steals from the station and the faint smoke that never quite leaves our skin.
When the song slows, he presses his forehead to mine, eyes bright and happy, the kind of happiness that used to make my chest hurt in the best way.
“You’re stuck with me, you know that?” he whispers against my mouth, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Even when you’re grumpy and covered in soot and pretending you don’t love this.”
I kiss him instead of answering, tasting laughter and the future we thought we had.
The memory fades.
I’m back on the futon, beer bottle cold in my hand, the apartment dead silent except for the distant hum of the city outside. Robby’s laugh is gone. The music is gone. The warmth of his hands on my waist is gone.
All that’s left is the burn in my shoulder and the hollow ache where he used to be.
I take another long swallow, eyes burning, and let the alcohol do its job. At least the beer doesn’t lie to me. It doesn’t pretend everything’s going to be okay.
Is there a point of drinking too much? If there is, I’ve probably surpassed it the last few days. I crack bleary eyes open and focus on the clock next to my futon. 5:34 PM. Guess I’m going to be late and drunk at the next trauma circle.
The empty bottles on the coffee table mock me. Ten? Twelve? I lost count somewhere between the memories of Robby and the third time I replayed that soft blond kid’s voice in my head today. The apartment smells like stale beer.
I should shower or eat something that isn’t liquid. And if I plan on faking any kind of healing, I should probably not show up to that fucking feelings circle smelling like a distillery and looking as if I just crawled out of the grave.
Instead, I push myself up, the room tilting hard, and grab the half-empty bottle that’s still on the floor where I put it. One more swallow. For courage.
I snort. Right. That’s what it’s for.
The MetroCard is still in my jacket pocket from the last time I left the apartment. I pull it out, stare at it, then shove it back in. Fuck it. I’ll be late. I’ll be drunk. And maybe they’ll kick me out and I can come back and drink some more.
I splash water on my face in the bathroom, but it doesn’t help. I look like shit. Not surprising.
I don’t bother changing my clothes. They get the full package today.
The walk to the subway is a blur of too-bright streetlights and too-loud voices. By the time I shove open the door to the New Light community room, I’m twenty minutes late, and the circle is already going. Heads turn toward me, and I give them a sloppy salute.
The pretty boy—Charlie—is sitting in the same spot as last time, in a cropped hoodie that shows off the smooth skin of his stomach, and baggy looking jeans with rips all over them with fishnets visible through the holes. His eyes find mine immediately.
I drop into the empty chair across from him, spreading my legs wide, and slouching into it. The beer is still buzzing warm in my veins.
The therapist gives me a calm, measured look. “Hunter. Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Group therapy and cheap coffee? My favorite fucking Friday night.”
Whoops. That’s not going to convince them I’m ready for a change.
Charlie’s gaze doesn’t waver. And it makes my skin itch. I absently scratch at my forearm and look away first. But I can still feel him watching me. And for the first time in days, Robby’s voice is almost silent.
That terrifies me more than anything.
Tim clears his throat gently. “Charlie, you were in the middle of sharing. Would you like to continue?”
Charlie hesitates. His light-blue eyes flick to me for a long second, then drop to his painted nails. The room goes quiet. I can feel every person in the circle holding their breath, waiting to see if the soft kid is going to shut down because the drunk asshole just walked in.
He swallows once, then lifts his chin. His voice comes out soft but steady.
“I was talking about the worst nights in conversion therapy,” he says. “When it was decided that prayer and ice baths weren’t enough to stop my urges. They wanted proof I didn’t like dick.”
He huffs a bitter sounding laugh and rolls his eyes. I straighten a little, the beer turning sour in my gut. And he continues.