Charlie #2
The night air is cooler now as I jog the block to Walgreens, the fluorescent lights inside too bright after the dim apartment.
I grab fresh gauze, antibiotic ointment, painkillers (just in case), and a bottle of Gatorade because drunk guys need electrolytes.
The cashier gives me a sympathetic look when I pay, like she knows exactly what kind of night I’m having.
When I get back, the apartment is quiet except for Sofia’s loud purring. Hunter is still sprawled on the couch, eyes half-closed, one big hand resting on my cat’s back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I set the bag down on the coffee table and pull out the supplies. Then move over to the sink to wash my hands. Before moving back over to him, I grab a washcloth and a bowl of warm soapy water and carry it over, setting it down on the table.
“Sit up,” I say gently. “Let me change the bandage before it gets infected.”
He cracks one eye open, scowling. “Told you I don’t need—”
“Hunter.”
The use of his name makes him pause. He stares at me for a long second, something raw flickering behind the haze of alcohol, then sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and slowly pushes himself upright.
“Fine,” he grumbles, voice thick. “But only because you’re bossy as hell and I’m too tired to argue.”
I kneel in front of him, shoo Sofia off of him, and help him shed his shirt. He winces as he raises his arm above his head. How does he do this on his own? Maybe he has someone to help him at his home.
“Do you need to call anyone to let them know you’re safe?” I ask.
He blinks down at me and gives a small shake of his head.
A slight pang has my heart squeezing at the knowledge.
Being completely alone and grieving someone you love is a terrible place to be.
I know—I grieved my entire family all at once after I escaped the conversion therapy. Because there is no going back for me.
I press my lips together as I carefully peel back the old gauze on his shoulder. The skin underneath is angry red, blistered in places, raw glistening skin in others, and it’s layered over older scars. My fingers brush the edge of the fresh burn and he hisses, but doesn’t pull away.
“Sorry. This might hurt a little.” I dip the washcloth in the soapy water and clean the wound as gently as I can. His eyes are on me the entire time, but he’s silent as I clean it and then change the water so I can rinse the area before applying the antibiotic ointment.
The muscle under my hands is solid and fever-warm, twitching every time the cloth passes over a particularly raw spot.
I can feel the raised edges of the older scars—thick, shiny ropes of tissue that pull tight when he breathes.
He’s burning up, skin hot enough that I worry the infection is already trying to take hold.
Every gentle press of my fingers feels dangerously intimate, like I’m touching something I have no right to.
Hunter stays quiet through it all, his breathing slow and heavy, hazel eyes half-lidded but fixed on my face. The gruff, angry man from the circle is gone for the moment, replaced by someone exhausted and strangely pliant under my hands.
When I finish taping the fresh gauze in place, I sit back on my heels and look up at him.
“Better?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me with that raw, stormy look that makes my stomach flip in ways I really shouldn’t allow.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, voice thick and rough. “Better.”
The word hangs between us.
I stand up slowly, heart still racing, and gather the dirty supplies. “You should take the pain meds and drink some Gatorade, then try to sleep. The couch is yours tonight. I’ll grab you a blanket.”
Hunter watches me move around the small apartment, his gaze heavy on my back. I can feel it like a physical touch.
This is dangerous.
I want to let him leave. I should let him leave. Every rational part of me knows that bringing a drunk, grieving, angry man into my tiny studio is asking for trouble I’m not ready to handle.
But I don’t.
Instead, I cross the short distance between us, the floor creaking softly under my feet.
Hunter starts to push himself up from the couch, muttering something about needing to go, his big frame unsteady as he looks around the small space—the bed tucked in the corner, the easel in the opposite corner, the single chair, the kitchenette that’s basically just a counter and a mini-fridge.
It’s tiny. Intimate. Too intimate for someone like him.
Before he can fully stand, I put both hands on his pecs—warm, solid muscle under my palms, rising and falling with each heavy breath—and gently push him back down.
“Sit,” I say softly, but firmly. “It’s late. There’s no reason for you to leave before you sober up a little more.”
Hunter freezes under my touch, hazel eyes locking onto mine.
His chest is broad and warm beneath my hands, the steady thump of his heartbeat strong against my right palm.
For a second, I feel the tension in him—the urge to stand anyway, to push past me and walk out the door.
But he doesn’t. He stays seated, breathing a little harder, gaze dropping to where my hands are still resting on him.
“You really shouldn’t be touching me right now,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but he doesn’t move away.
“I know,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. My fingers flex once against the firm muscle before I force myself to pull back, the loss of contact feeling strangely cold. “But you’re staying. Couch. Blanket. Gatorade. End of discussion.”
He watches me for another long beat, something stormy and conflicted flickering across his face. Then he sinks back against the cushions with a defeated grunt, one arm draping over his eyes like he can’t quite look at me anymore.
“Bossy little shit,” he mumbles, but there’s no real heat in it.
I turn away before he can see the flush creeping up my neck, grabbing the spare blanket from the closet and draping it over him. Sofia immediately jumps back onto his lap, claiming her spot again with a loud, satisfied purr.
Hunter doesn’t protest this time. He just lets out a long, tired sigh and mutters, “Demon fur-ball.”
I smile despite everything, the sight of my anti-social cat curled happily on this large, grumpy man is almost comical.
And I really shouldn’t like seeing it.