Charlie
The buzz settles in nice and warm somewhere behind my ribs after the second drink, loosening the knots that not sleeping leaves behind.
Not drunk—just soft around the edges, the kind of floaty where the bass feels as if it’s pulsing straight through my bones and the colored lights look prettier than they have any right to.
I laugh too loud at Maya’s story about her nightmare coworker, let Heather drag me onto the dance floor again and, for once, my head goes quiet.
Hunter’s still at the table.
Every time I glance over, his eyes are on me.
Dark, steady, unblinking. Not smiling, not really, just…
watching. Like he’s memorizing the way my cropped hoodie rides up when I lift my arms or the way my ass looks in my jeans when I move.
It does something dangerous to me. A slow, liquid heat pools low in my stomach and spreads outward until my skin feels too tight.
I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s from group, he’s got his own heavy shit, and I’ve got ghosts that still wake me up gasping some nights.
Pursuing anything with him is a terrible idea.
But I dance like the only eyes that matter are his.
I roll my hips slower, let my head fall back so my hair brushes my shoulders, run my hands down my own sides just to feel the fabric shift.
When the beat drops, I drop with it, knees bending, back arching, then rising again with a little spin that makes the hem of the hoodie flash skin.
Every move is for him. Dangerous. Stupid. Addictive.
Lucy clocks it. Of course she does. She’s been my best friend since I crawled into this city half-broken; she sees everything.
We tumble back to the table after the third song, flushed and breathless. I drop into the chair next to Hunter, close enough that my knee brushes his under the table. He doesn’t pull away. That warm feeling flares brighter.
Lucy leans forward, elbows on the sticky wood, wicked little smile already in place. She looks straight at Hunter like he’s prey.
“So, Hunter,” she starts, voice sweet enough to rot teeth, “you just happened to be in the neighborhood tonight? In a city this big, what are the odds?”
Maya and Heather exchange a glance. Clay smirks into his beer, clearly enjoying the show.
Hunter stays quiet, but I can feel the shift in him—shoulders tightening just a fraction.
Lucy doesn’t let up. “You always stare that hard at people you’re dropping by to say hi to? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you want to eat him alive. Or maybe protect him from the entire world. Which is it?”
Heat floods my face. I sink lower in my chair, but I can’t stop the small, embarrassed smile tugging at my lips. Part of me wants to tell her to shut up. The other part—the buzzing, warm, stupid part—wants to hear what he’ll say.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “And be honest. You followed him in here tonight, didn’t you? Not just ‘in the neighborhood.’ Be real with us. Do you always tail pretty boys with eyeliner and daddy issues, or is our Charlie special?”
Heather snorts. Maya covers her mouth, laughing behind her hand. Clay leans back, arms crossed, waiting for the answer like it’s better than the music.
I risk a glance at Hunter. My heart’s hammering now, the buzz mixing with something sharper—nerves, want, that old familiar fear that anything good gets twisted into shame eventually.
But right now, with his eyes still on me and the low lights painting shadows across his face, it feels worth the risk.
I bite my lip and wait, the dangerous little thrill curling tighter in my chest.
Lucy isn’t done. She leans in even closer, voice dropping like she’s sharing a secret with the whole table. “Come on, big guy. Tell us—how long have you been watching him? And what exactly do you want from our pretty little disaster here?”
The table goes expectantly quiet, all eyes on Hunter.
I should stop her. I don’t.
Hunter stays quiet for a beat, then shrugs one shoulder like none of it matters.
His voice comes out flat, almost bored. “It’s clear I’ve overstayed my welcome.
Didn’t mean to give the wrong impression.
” He pushes his half-empty Coke away and stands, the stool scraping loud against the sticky floor. “You kids have fun.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Just turns and cuts through the crowd toward the door, shoulders broad and tense under the pulsing lights.
Disappointment hits me like a dull punch to the gut—but still sharp enough to cut through the buzz, heavy enough that I have to swallow twice to keep my face neutral.
I force the corners of my mouth to stay up, laugh at something Heather says like I didn’t even notice him leave.
Inside, though, the warm feeling curdles fast. Of course he brushed it off.
Of course he walked away the second Lucy pushed.
It’s exactly what I needed to remember: Hunter is off-limits.
Whatever that pull is between us, whatever made me dance like I was performing just for him, it’s a mistake.
I’ve spent too many years learning how to keep the walls up after the prayer room tried to break me open and bleed out everything soft and wrong inside me.
I’m not letting anyone past them again. Especially not him.
Lucy watches me for a second, her eyes softening just a fraction like she can see the crack forming, but she doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she bumps my shoulder with hers. “Come on, princess. One more round before last call?”
I nod, already reaching for my drink, the buzz turning a little sour now. “Yeah. Let’s dance.”
But even as I let them pull me back onto the floor, the disappointment sits there, cold and stubborn under the music. It cements the truth I already knew deep down: I really shouldn’t let Hunter past the walls I’ve put up. Not tonight. Not ever.
The city outside is still loud and alive when we finally spill out an hour later, but the ghosts feel closer than they have in weeks. I shove my hands in my pockets, cropped hoodie doing nothing against the bite in the air, and start the walk home alone.
Just me and the dark I know better than to invite in.
Sleep finally claims me somewhere around 4 a.m., the kind of heavy, ungrateful sleep that comes after too much noise and not enough honesty. One second, I’m staring at the ceiling watching headlights crawl across the cracks, the next, I’m gone.
The nightmare doesn’t ease me in. It slams the door shut behind me.
I’m back in the prayer room.
The air is thick with incense and sweat and the sour smell of fear that never quite leaves that place.
Dim yellow light from a single bulb swinging overhead.
The walls are close—wood paneling that feels like it’s breathing.
I’m on my knees in the center of the circle, the rough carpet beneath my knees.
Adult hands press down on my shoulders, heavy, unyielding.
Fingers dig in like they’re trying to pin my soul in place.
“Deliver us from perversion,” the low chant starts, voices overlapping, all male, all older. “Cleanse this child of unnatural desires. Drive out the demon of same-sex attraction. Let the blood of the Lamb wash him pure.”
I can feel their breath on my neck. One of them—Pastor Dale, I know it’s him even though I can’t see his face—leans in closer, his voice dropping to that intimate, venomous whisper he always used when no one else could hear.
“You were born broken, Charles. God made you a boy, but you keep trying to twist yourself into something filthy. Stop fighting it. Stop painting your eyes like a whore. Stop wanting what you were never meant to have.”
My chest heaves. I try to pull away but the hands only press harder, forcing my forehead down until it touches the floor.
Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks and soak into the carpet.
I’m sixteen again, small and shaking, every inch of me screaming that this is wrong, that I’m not broken, that the only thing perverted here is what they’re doing to me.
But the words won’t come. They never do in the nightmare.
Instead, the chant grows louder, drowning out everything else.
“Deliver us… deliver us… deliver us from perversion…”
The hands slide lower, one gripping the back of my neck, the other pressing between my shoulder blades until my ribs ache.
I can taste salt and snot every time I swallow.
Somewhere far away I hear myself whimpering, small and pathetic, the same sound I made the night they held me down for three hours “praying the gay away.”
Then the scene fractures.
Hunter is there.
He’s standing just outside the circle of men chanting over me, watching with those dark, steady eyes.
Not helping. Not stopping it. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, something colder.
In the dream, I reach for him anyway, desperate, because some stupid part of me still thinks he might be different.
He doesn’t move.
The hands on my shoulders squeeze tighter. Pastor Dale’s voice slithers into my ear again.
“See? Even the ones you want will only watch while we fix you.”
I wake up gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. The apartment is dark except for the weak gray light of early morning leaking through the three big windows.
Sofia is curled on the pillow next to my head, purring like nothing’s wrong.
I sit up fast, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until white sparks explode behind my lids.
My whole body is shaking. The prayer-room smell still clings to the inside of my nose—incense, old carpet, sweat. I can still feel the phantom weight of those hands.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the quiet room. My voice cracks like I’m sixteen again.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until the nightmare starts to loosen its grip.
The mirror shows me exactly what I expect: smudged eyeliner from last night, pale cheeks, eyes too wide and too haunted, and the growing bags under them.
Hunter’s face flashes behind my eyelids—standing there in the dream, watching, not saving me.
I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles go white.
No. I’m not letting him in. Not even in my sleep. The walls stay up. They have to.
I dry my face with the towel that still smells like cheap detergent and my fabric softener, then pad back to bed. Sofia meows softly and headbutts my chest until I lie down again.
The city is waking up outside the open windows—honks, distant sirens, someone yelling about parking. Normal. Alive. Mine.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the daylight to burn the last of the nightmare away.
It doesn’t.
Not completely.