Hunter
“No,” he says quietly, the word slipping out like he didn’t mean to let it. “It doesn’t scare me.”
The second it leaves his mouth, something ugly and sweet twists in my chest. Charlie’s sitting there on that bench with his sketchbook open in his lap, cropped black shirt riding up just enough to show that strip of pale skin I can’t stop noticing, his eyeliner a little smudged from the panic attack, and he’s telling me that me following him doesn’t scare him.
Fuck.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel the obsession sink its teeth in deeper.
I’m becoming obsessed with him. With the way he moves through the world like it hasn’t already tried to chew him up and spit him out.
With how bright he still is even after everything those bastards probably did to him.
With how he can have a full-blown panic attack on a street corner and then sit here ten minutes later with the sun on his face as though none of it happened.
I want to protect him from all of it.
From the random preachers who think they know best and the dark shit that still lives in his head. I want to stand between him and every single thing that ever tried to make him smaller.
And I know how fucked that is.
We’re strangers. And I’m an asshole most of the time—it’s my default setting. I’ve got scars on my body from the fire that killed the last person I tried to “protect,” and I’m already attempting to do the same shit with him.
But Charlie is nothing like Robby.
That realization hit me hard last night, and it’s still sitting in my chest like a live coal.
Things with Robby were sharp edges and loud fights and make-up sex that was more like punishment.
He was fire and chaos. He always gave as good as he got.
Toward the end, he cheated on me more times than I can count, which I tried to drown out with liquor.
He said he cheated because I drank, but I didn’t start drinking until after the first time I found the evidence.
I’ve spent months convincing myself the good memories were the whole truth.
That he was the love of my life instead of the longest bad habit I ever had.
Charlie is… different.
He’s a little sassy and full of confidence that hides the pain I know he must live with.
He’s soft in the places Robby was jagged, bright where Robby turned everything dark.
He feels everything and lets it show instead of turning it into a weapon.
And right now, he’s sitting here telling me that me following him doesn’t scare him, even though we both know it probably should.
He’s not interested in me sexually. At least not the me that’s still fighting demons. Not the version that drinks too much, shows up where he shouldn’t, and carries burn scars from the night he couldn’t save the last person he cared about. That truth stings more than it should.
It makes me want to heal.
Who the fuck wants to heal because it might give them a chance with someone?
That’s pathetic. That’s the kind of desperate, twisted shit I used to mock in other people.
And yet, here I am, sitting on this bench next to a twenty-two-year-old guy, with golden curls and smudged eyeliner, quietly deciding I might try to get my shit together just on the off-chance he might look at me one day without that careful distance in his eyes.
“You should be scared,” I say finally, voice low. “I’m not exactly someone you should trust right now.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He glances up at me real fast, then back down at his open sketchbook.
“Do you mind if I draw you?”
Shock filters through me. That is not what I thought he would say. I expected him to agree with me, close the sketchbook, and make some polite excuse to be anywhere but here with the creepy older guy who keeps showing up in his life.
Instead, he’s asking to draw me.
I’m nodding before the words even leave my mouth, because if he’s drawing me that means I don’t have to leave him sitting here like some normal guy might. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
Charlie’s eyes flick up again, surprised for half a second, but he recovers quickly. He shifts on the bench, pulling his knee up between us so he can face me. I force my gaze to stay on his face, although every part of me wants to stare at the strip of stomach he exposes every time he shifts.
He starts drawing. Charcoal scratching softly against the paper.
Every few seconds, his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth in concentration, the same little habit I noticed when I watched him the other day.
His knee bounces lightly once, then stills.
The breeze keeps playing with his curls, and I have to clench my hand into a fist so I don’t reach over and tuck one behind his ear.
I sit as still as I can, letting him look at me. Really look. Not the version I show the world, not even the asshole I was in group, but the real one under everything. It feels exposing in a way I’m not used to. Vulnerable. And I still don’t move.
The silence stretches, comfortable and heavy at the same time. The fountain splashes behind us. Somewhere in the distance a kid laughs. Charlie’s eyes move between my face and the page, quick and focused, like he’s trying to capture something before it disappears.
After a minute he murmurs, almost to himself, “You’ve got a good face for drawing. Lots of shadows.”
I huff a quiet laugh, the sound rough in my throat. “That’s one way to put it.”
He smiles, small, crooked, the exact kind of smile that makes the obsession flare hotter.
His charcoal keeps moving, shading something along my jaw.
I watch the way his fingers smudge the lines, leaving faint black streaks on his skin, and I think about how easy it would be to reach over and wipe them off with my thumb.
I don’t.
Instead, I sit here letting him draw me for as long as he wants.
The sun warms my shoulders. Charlie’s knee brushes mine again when he shifts for a better angle. He doesn’t pull away and neither do I.
My face takes shape on his page, and it looks exactly like me, including the scar I have on my temple that I got from climbing trees as a kid.
Eventually he sighs, looks up at me with a full smile that hits me straight in the gut, and says, “Thanks. Drawing calms me down. But I’ve held you hostage long enough.”
I clear my throat before he can tell me I can leave, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you hungry? I can feed you.”
Charlie blinks, then laughs—bright, surprised, a little husky. The sound goes straight to my dick and my chest at the same time.
“Can you feed me?” He tilts his head, that crooked smile turning playful. “Bold offer, Hunter. You planning to hunt something down in the park, or are we talking actual food?”
I lean in just a fraction, letting my voice drop lower. “Whatever you want. Street cart hot dogs, shitty pizza, five-star whatever. Name it. I’m buying.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief as he closes the sketchbook. “Careful. I might take advantage of that. I’m starving, and I have expensive taste when someone else is paying.”
“Good,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m ready to be taken advantage of.”
The words hang between us. Charlie’s cheek flush the faintest pink, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he bites his bottom lip for half a second—just long enough to make me want to do it for him—then laughs again.
“You’re dangerous when you flirt, you know that?”
“Only with you,” I answer, honestly, before I can stop myself. “Most people I just grunt at.”
He leans back against the bench, stretching his arms overhead so the cropped shirt rides up even higher, exposing the soft curve of his waist. “Lucky me. So what’s the catch? You gonna follow me to the food truck, too?”
“Only if you want me to.” I let my eyes drift down to that strip of skin, then back up to his face. “But I’d rather walk beside you. Makes it easier to stare without pretending I’m not.”
Charlie’s laugh turns into a grin—wide, genuine, a little wicked. “Jesus. You really don’t do subtle, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.” I shrug, letting the corner of my mouth twitch. “Figured after the whole ‘I’ve been watching you’ confession, subtle was off the table.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and tucks the sketchbook under his arm as he stands. “Come on then, big guy. Feed me before I change my mind and make you watch me eat alone.”
I push up from the bench, falling into step beside him as we leave the fountain behind. Our shoulders brush with every other step. The breeze keeps lifting the hem of his shirt, and I don’t even try to hide the way my eyes keep dropping to it.
“So,” I say, voice low and teasing, “you always let strange older men buy you food after they admit to following you?”
“Only the ones who catch me mid-panic attack and don’t run away,” he shoots back, bumping his shoulder against mine deliberately. “Besides… you’re not that strange. You’re just… intense. In a hot, slightly terrifying way.”
“Hot and terrifying,” I repeat, tasting the words. “I’ll take it.”
Charlie glances up at me through his lashes, that sassy little spark back in his eyes. “Don’t get cocky. I still haven’t decided if I’m letting you walk me home after.”
I lean down just enough to speak close to his ear. “You will.”
He shivers—actually shivers—and laughs again, the sound bright and warm against the city noise.
“Cocky and dangerous,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” I agree, letting my hand brush the small of his back as we cross the street. “But you’re still walking with me.”
He doesn’t pull away.
He just looks up at me with that crooked, devastating smile and says, “Yeah. I am.”