Hunter
A pounding rattles inside my skull as though someone’s taking a sledgehammer to the back of my eyes.
Hangover. Obviously. I deserve it.
I groan and try to roll over, but something warm and heavy is pinning me down on my bare chest. The weight shifts, lets out a tiny, indignant meow, and then settles again with a loud, rumbling purr that vibrates straight through my sternum.
What the fuck?
I crack open one eye. Sunlight is stabbing through the window as if it has a personal grudge.
The room I’m in is small, there’s a bed tucked in the corner and an easel against the far wall.
My shirt is missing, so are my shoes. I’m sprawled on a couch that’s too short for my legs, and a small black cat with white socks is curled on my chest as though she owns the spot.
The night before comes back in pieces.
The group session. Bailing after listening to Charlie tell the room he was raped. Puking in a trash can…twice. Then him bringing me here and taking care of me. And the fucking desire that my drunk brain wouldn’t let go of.
“Fuck,” I rasp.
The cat lifts her head, blinks at me slowly, then headbutts my sternum like she’s personally offended I’m awake and ruining her nap. Her purr kicks up another notch, loud and smug, as if to say you’re mine now, big guy.
I don’t push her off. My hand moves on its own, settling on her small, warm back. The fur is soft under my calloused palm, and for one stupid second, the simple contact feels like the only good thing that’s happened in months.
Robby’s been gone less than a year, and I’m already letting some soft, pretty boy take care of me.
I’m such a bastard.
The memory of his fingers on my skin won’t leave.
The way he knelt in front of me, careful and steady, the way his breath ghosted over my shoulder while he worked.
The way my body reacted even through the pain and the shame.
I got hard. Actually got hard while he was bandaging me.
What kind of fucked-up monster does that?
Sofia headbutts me again, demanding more pets, and I give them without thinking, my big hand dwarfing her tiny body. She purrs louder, eyes half-closed in pure bliss, like she’s decided I’m her new favorite person despite my best efforts to be unlikable.
The apartment is quiet and empty except for her rumbling and the distant hum of the city outside the window.
Sunlight cuts across the room in sharp beams, highlighting the rumpled blanket pooled around my waist. His space is clean and tiny.
The opposite of my mess of an apartment with its stained carpet and permanent scent of beer and alcohol.
I should get up. Find my shirt. Leave before Charlie comes back and sees me like this—hungover, half-naked, and petting his cat like I belong here.
But I don’t move.
Because the memory of his hands on my chest keeps playing on loop. The gentle press of his touch. And the way he looked at me like I wasn’t poisonous.
Robby’s voice tries to push in, but it’s quieter today. Muted. Like even my dead boyfriend is giving me side-eye for the way my body reacted to someone else’s touch.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the couch cushion.
I’m a traitor.
I’m a monster.
And I might be becoming obsessed to know more about this man that brought a drunk stranger into his space without so much as blinking an eye.
Sofia climbs higher on my chest, kneading my sternum with her white paws, purring like a broken engine.
I don’t push her away.
I just lie there, the sunlight warming my skin, the cat’s weight a strange comfort, and let the guilt and the want and the hangover all crash together until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
The front door clicks open.
I don’t open my eyes right away. I already know it’s him. The air in the room shifts the second he steps inside—that faint vanilla scent cutting through the air.
Charlie pauses in the doorway. I can feel his gaze on me, taking in the scene: me sprawled on his couch, shirtless, with his anti-social cat curled happily on my chest like she’s decided I’m her new throne.
“Morning,” he says softly. “You look…comfortable.”
I crack one eye open.
He’s changed into fresh clothes—soft gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a loose white t-shirt that’s slightly too big, the collar slipping off one shoulder to show a strip of smooth skin.
His golden curls are still messy from sleep, and the faint trace of eyeliner from last night is gone, but he still looks soft. Too soft for the mess I am.
Sofia lifts her head, gives him a slow, smug blink like she’s daring him to complain, then settles back down with a louder purr, kneading my sternum harder as if to say mine now.
Charlie’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “She’s such a traitor. She never likes anyone. Usually hides under the bed when people come over.”
I grunt, my hand still resting on her back as if it belongs there. “Yeah, well… she’s got bad taste.”
He crosses the small space and sets a paper bag on the counter, the faint smell of coffee and something sweet drifting over. His eyes flick over me again—bare chest, the fresh bandage on my shoulder, the way I’m sprawled on his couch like I have every right to be here.
“You slept okay?” he asks, voice gentle, almost careful.
I shrug with the good shoulder, the movement pulling at the burns. “Better than the futon at my place. Thanks for… not kicking me out on my ass last night.”
Charlie’s gaze lingers on the bandage for a second, then moves back to my face. There’s something in his eyes—curiosity, concern, that same steady softness that’s been crawling under my skin since the first time he looked at me.
“You were pretty out of it,” he says quietly. “Didn’t seem right to send you home alone.”
The words hang there, simple and kind. I should leave. I should thank him, grab my shirt, and get the fuck out before I do something stupid like pull him down onto this couch with me.
But I don’t move.
And Charlie doesn’t tell me to.
He clears his throat. “I uh, have an extra toothbrush if you want to use it. It’s new. After last night, I’m sure your mouth tastes like a dumpster. Or, if you want you can have coffee and a donut first. I brought enough to share.”
The casual mention of my breath hits like a slap. I run my tongue over my teeth and immediately regret it—sour beer, puke, and bile. My mouth does taste like a dumpster. Probably smells like one, too. The thought of breathing on him right now makes my stomach twist in a whole new way.
I sit up slowly, Sofia protesting with a dramatic meow as she’s dislodged from my chest. The blanket pools around my waist. His eyes dip to my chest, then my abs, and it makes something warm spread through me.
I feel like a fucking peacock wanting to strut my stuff and spread my feathers wider so he’ll notice more.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Toothbrush sounds good. Don’t want to poison the coffee with whatever’s crawling around in my mouth right now.”
Charlie gives a small nod and gestures toward the bathroom. “It’s on the sink in the package. Help yourself.”
I push to my feet, the room tilting for a second, and make my way to the tiny bathroom. The mirror is merciless: bloodshot eyes, three-day stubble, hair sticking up like I lost a fight with a tornado. I look exactly like the mess I am.
I brush my teeth harder than necessary, the mint burning away the worst of the taste, but it doesn’t touch the shame sitting heavy in my chest. When I come back out, Charlie’s set two coffees and a small bag of donuts on the tiny counter.
He looks so fucking tempting in those gray sweat pants, too tempting for someone like me.
I grab one of the coffees, the heat grounding me a little. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, picking at a chocolate donut. “Least I could do after dragging you here last night.”
We eat in silence for a minute, the only sounds the distant city hum and Sofia’s occasional meow from the couch like she’s offended we’re not paying attention to her.
The coffee is good—strong, black, exactly what my pounding head needs.
The donut is sweet and flaky, and for a second, the normalcy of it all feels almost dangerous.
I don’t have normal anymore. Normal is a thing of the past.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. The way the T-shirt slips off one shoulder and his sweats seem to cling to the globes of his ass muscles. The way his painted nails tap against the coffee cup like he’s nervous but trying not to show it.
I want to know more.
All of it. What he looks like when he’s happy or sad. Or bored. Or horny. What his fucking mouth tastes like after he has coffee.
The thought hits me low and hot, twisting in my gut.
I shouldn’t be thinking about his mouth.
I shouldn’t be noticing how the sweatpants hug his ass when he turns to grab a napkin.
I shouldn’t be imagining what that soft voice would sound like moaning my name instead of telling me I don’t have to leave.
I shove all of those thoughts away.
A loud, insistent banging on the door makes both of us jump.
Charlie freezes, then lets out a small, resigned sigh. “That’s Lucy.”
Before I can ask who the hell Lucy is, he crosses the room and opens the door.
A woman in neon leggings bursts in like she’s storming a barricade, a paper bag in one hand and pure panic on her face.
“Charlie! You didn’t text me back! I thought you were kidnapped or murdered or—oh my God, who the fuck is that?”
Her eyes land on me, half-naked standing next to her friend—and go wide. She looks back at Charlie, mouth opening and closing.
“You didn’t…”
Charlie shakes his head quickly, cheeks flushing. “No. I didn’t. He…had a rough night. I brought him here so he wouldn’t pass out on the sidewalk.”
Lucy’s gaze snaps back to me, narrowing. She takes in the fresh bandage on my shoulder, the empty coffee cups, the obvious mess I am, and her expression hardens.
“Time to go,” she says flatly, marching over to the coffee table, snatching my shirt off it, and tossing it at my chest. “Shoes. Now. Out.”
I catch the shirt, blinking through the hangover fog. “Who the fuck are you?”
“His best friend,” she snaps, already pointing at my shoes by the door. “And I’m not letting some random guy crash here after a group session. Charlie’s been through enough without becoming someone’s emotional support human at 11 a.m. Shoes. Door. Goodbye.”
Charlie nibbles on his lower lip but doesn’t argue with her. He just stands there, arms crossed, looking equal parts embarrassed and resigned.
I pull the shirt over my head, wincing as it drags across the fresh bandage, then shove my feet into my shoes. Sofia gives me one last betrayed look before hopping off the couch and slipping under the bed.
Lucy holds the door open, eyes hard. “Don’t come back, unless you’re all over your trauma and healed.”
I pause in the doorway, shoulder throbbing, head still pounding, and look back at Charlie one last time.
He’s watching me. A little furrow of his brows, with what might be concern, his lip still captured between his teeth. Something in my chest twists hard—protective, possessive, and ugly all at once.
I don’t say anything.
I just step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that sinks into me.