Charlie #2
He steps in front of me, broad shoulders blocking the preacher from view, his body angled like a shield. One hand stays on my back, the other gently takes my sketchbook before I drop it.
“Look at me,” he says, calm but firm. “Just me. Right here.”
My eyes find his. Dark. Steady. No judgment or pity.
“In through your nose…slow. Out through your mouth. I’ve got you.”
The preacher is still talking behind him, voice rising, but Hunter doesn’t even turn around. He just keeps his eyes on mine, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles against my spine through the thin fabric of my cropped shirt.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “They don’t get to touch you. They don’t get to decide shit about you. Just breathe with me.”
I try. The air stutters at first, then starts to even out. The black spots fade. My heart is still racing, but it’s no longer trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
Hunter stays right there, close enough that I can smell soap on his skin, his hand never leaving my back until my breathing steadies.
When the preacher finally gives up and moves on to the next sinner, Hunter’s shoulders relax a fraction.
“Better?” he asks quietly.
I nod, still a little shaky, but the panic is loosening its grip.
He doesn’t pull his hand away right away. His thumb brushes once more along my spine, almost absentmindedly, like he needs the contact as much as I do.
“Yeah,” I manage, voice rough. “Better.”
The city keeps moving around us. But for a moment, the only thing that exists is Hunter’s hand on my back and the strange, terrifying feeling of being protected by him.
He guides me away from the corner, one hand still resting lightly at the small of my back, steering me toward the little park I love a couple blocks over.
We don’t speak. He just walks with me until we reach my favorite fountain—the one with the cracked stone basin and the water that sparkles when the sun hits it just right.
Only then does he ease me down onto the bench.
I sit. He drops down right beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch. The second his hand leaves my back, I feel the loss like a missing weight. Cold rushes in where his palm had been.
“Panic attack?” he asks quietly.
I nod and swallow hard, staring at the fountain instead of at him. “Yeah. I don’t get them a lot. They normally happen in the middle of the night, coming out of a nightmare.”
I twist my lips to cut off any other information I might share.
Hunter stays silent for a beat, elbows on his knees, watching the water like it might have answers. When he speaks again, his voice is low, careful, the same tone he used when he told me to breathe.
“You handled it better than most people do when it hits them in public.” He pauses, then adds, almost like he’s admitting something, “I used to get them after… everything. Still do sometimes. They sneak up when you least expect it.”
I risk a glance at him. He’s not looking at me like I'm fragile. He’s watching me like he gets it.
“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been there…”
It hits me that he was there. Right when I needed someone. What are the odds?
The breeze picks up, cool against the strip of bare skin between my cropped shirt and jeans. I pull my sketchbook into my lap like a shield, fingers tracing the spiral binding over and over.
I swallow, trying to sound casual even though my pulse is still a little too fast. “So… what were you doing around here, anyway?”
Hunter leans back against the bench, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His boots scuff the pavement once before he stills. For a second, he doesn’t answer, just watches the fountain like the answer might be floating in the water.
“Was leaving a friend’s place,” he says finally. “Not far from here. Figured I’d cut through the park on my way back.”
He says it so casually it almost sounds believable.
Almost.
I nod like I buy it, but something in my chest tightens anyway.
The odds feel…off. Too convenient. Too perfect.
First the club, then the pole studio, now this random corner right when I was spiraling.
But the warmth of his hand is still ghosting along my spine, and right now, I don’t want to pick at it.
Not when the panic is still fading and the sun feels this good on my skin.
“Okay,” I say quietly, flipping my sketchbook open to a blank page just to have something to do with my hands. “Well… thanks. For real. Most people would’ve just kept walking.”
Hunter shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes flick to me again. “Couldn’t just leave you like that.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the fountain splashing softly between us.
My charcoal stick hovers over the page, but I don’t draw anything yet.
I’m too aware of him beside me—the solid warmth of his thigh almost touching mine, the way his jaw keeps tightening like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say.
“Were you heading here to draw?” he asks.
The question lands strangely. My hand stills on the page.
I stare at him.
How would he know I draw here?
This isn’t some random bench in some random park. This is my bench. The one I come to when I need the fountain sounds to drown out everything else. I’ve never mentioned it in group. Never posted about it. Never told anyone except Lucy, and even she doesn’t always know when I’m here.
My stomach does a slow, uneasy flip.
“Yeah…” I say slowly, dragging the word out while I study his face. “I come here a lot. How did you—”
I stop myself before the full question leaves my mouth, but it hangs there anyway, heavy between us.
Hunter doesn’t flinch. He just leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, eyes on the water like it’s suddenly fascinating. His voice stays low, casual in a way that feels practiced.
“Saw you here once. From across the path. You looked… focused. Figured this was your spot.”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.
But my skin prickles anyway.
I swallow, forcing my charcoal back to the page even though my hand is unsteady now. I start sketching loose, meaningless lines—anything to keep from looking at him too long.
“You see a lot of things you’re not supposed to, huh?” I mutter, half to myself.
Hunter doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, rougher around the edges.
“I notice you.”
Three simple words. They shouldn’t feel like a confession and a warning at the same time, but they do.
I risk another glance at him. He’s still staring at the fountain, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for me to call him on it. The sun catches the stubble on his cheek and the faint scar near his temple I’ve never noticed before.
My heart is beating faster again, but it’s not panic this time. It’s something else. Something that tastes like the moment right before you loosen your grip on the pole and hope gravity doesn’t fuck you over.
I flip to a new page in the sketchbook, the paper rustling loud in the quiet between us.
“You gonna keep watching me from a distance?” I ask, keeping my tone light even though my chest feels tight. “Or are you eventually gonna admit you were following me today?”
Hunter’s head turns slowly. His eyes meet mine—dark, tired, and far too honest.
He doesn’t deny it.
He just holds my gaze and says, “Would it scare you if I was?”
The fountain keeps splashing. The city keeps moving.
And I sit there on my favorite bench, charcoal hovering, heart hammering, trying to decide if the answer is yes…or no.
It doesn’t scare me.
That’s the part that fucks me up the most.
A slow, dangerous flare of excitement curls low in my stomach, hot and sharp, the same rush I get right before I drop into a hard spin on the pole.
The danger of it—knowing he’s been watching me when I thought I was alone, knowing he showed up exactly when I needed someone, and he’s probably been doing this longer than he’ll admit—it lights something up inside me that I haven’t felt in years.
I should be freaked out. I should be backing away, telling him to stay the hell away from me, reminding myself of every red flag waving in my face. Instead, I feel alive. Seen. Wanted in a way that makes my skin prickle and my breath catch for entirely different reasons than the panic attack.
I swallow, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my pulse is racing.
“No,” I say quietly, the word slipping out before I can overthink it. “It doesn’t scare me.”