Charlie
The second the door clicks shut behind Hunter, Lucy spins on me like I just invited a serial killer in for tea.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” she hisses, eyes wide.
“Are you trying to get murdered? That guy looked like he could bench-press a subway car and then throw it fifty feet just for fun. And you brought him home? To your apartment? With your tiny bed in the corner and your cat who apparently has zero survival instincts?”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of how small my studio feels with both of us in it. “He was drunk and throwing up in a dumpster. I couldn’t just leave him there.”
Lucy throws her hands up. “Yes, you could! That’s what normal people do! They call a cab or an Uber or literally anything that doesn’t involve bringing the six-foot-four rage monster home with them!”
She pauses, then narrows her eyes, voice dropping. “Also…that guy was hot. Smoking hot. Like, ‘I would let him ruin my life in one night’ hot. The shoulders? The arms? The whole ‘I could snap you in half but also look like I need a hug’ vibe? Charlie. No.”
I feel my cheeks heat. I can still feel the solid warmth of his chest under my palm, the way his bicep flexed when I steadied him, the low rumble of his voice when he called me trouble.
Hell, I don’t think I slept a single second while he was in my apartment, because my head wouldn’t stop looping on it.
“I know,” I say quietly, sinking onto the edge of the couch where Hunter had been sprawled just minutes ago.
Sofia immediately jumps into my lap, purring like she’s trying to comfort me for my terrible decisions.
“I’m not going to act on it. I know he’s not someone I should get mixed up with.
He’s grieving hard, he’s angry, he’s a drunk…
it’s a recipe for disaster. I was just trying to make sure he didn’t end up face-down in the gutter. ”
Lucy stares at me for a long beat, then sighs and drops onto the couch beside me, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
“Baby, I love you, but your ‘just trying to help’ radar is broken. That man has ‘will ruin your healing journey and then ghost you’ written all over him. You’ve worked too hard to get where you are. Don’t let some hot, traumatized man drag you back into the dark.”
I lean my head against her shoulder, the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo grounding me.
“I won’t,” I murmur. “I know better. I’m not going to chase him. I’m not going to fix him. I’m just… going to keep showing up to group and try not to stare too much.”
Lucy snorts. “Liar. You’re already thinking about how his arms would feel around you, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
Because yes.
Yes, I am.
And that’s exactly why I need to stay far, far away from Hunter.
Lucy squeezes my shoulder, then stands up and starts gathering the empty coffee cups like she’s cleaning up more than just the mess on the table.
“Promise me something,” she says, as she tosses them into the trash can.
“If he shows up at the next session looking like that again—all broody and intense and ‘I could ruin your life in the best way’—you text me immediately. I’ll come drag you out myself.
No heroics. No ‘he needs someone to listen.’ You’ve listened enough for one lifetime. ”
I nod, even though we both know promises like that are easier said than kept.
“I promise.”
She eyes me for another second, then pulls me into a quick, fierce hug.
“Good. Now go take a shower. You need to wash that man out of your system. And now that I know you’re alive, I have to get to work.
I’ll text you later to make sure you didn’t spend the rest of the day painting tragic portraits of him. ”
I laugh weakly. “It was one painting.”
“One very detailed painting of a very hot, very broken man,” she corrects, already heading for the door. “Lock up behind me.”
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the apartment suddenly too quiet.
Sofia jumps back onto the couch and curls into the spot Hunter left behind, purring as though nothing happened.
I stare at the empty space where he’d been sprawled, shirtless and hungover, his big hand absently stroking her back like it was the most natural thing in the world when I got back from grabbing breakfast.
My chest aches with something I can’t quite name.
I know I did the right thing by letting Lucy chase him out.
I know I should keep my distance.
But the memory of his voice cracking when he told me not to be nice to him keeps circling in my head. I press my palms to my eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.
“You’re not going to do this again,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’re not going to let yourself want the fire just because it feels warm.”
Sofia meows at me, unimpressed.
I drop my hands and look at the blank canvas leaned against the wall.
Maybe I should paint something else today. Something safe. Something that doesn’t have broad shoulders and stormy hazel eyes and a voice that makes my stomach flip even when it’s mean.
But my fingers already itch for the charcoal. And deep down, I know exactly whose face is going to end up on that canvas again today.
I really am going to need stronger boundaries.
Starting tomorrow.
My phone pings with a text as the sun is setting. I blink, pulling my focus back to the painting in front of me. It’s Hunter—bare chest, asleep on my couch with Sofia curled on his stomach like she belongs there. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever done.
I inhale slowly and set the paintbrush down. I might actually use this one in my portfolio the next time I apply to a gallery.
Another ping pulls my eyes to the phone.
I pick it up. Two texts from Lucy.
Lucy: Hey, I’m off work. A few of us are going to The Spot tonight if you want to come.
Lucy: We will be there at 10.
I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but I’m not tired.
That’s the weird perk of my insomnia—if you can even call it that.
I’d love to sleep. I just know that if I lie down, I’ll end up staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the headlights from cars streak across it like slow-moving ghosts.
I glance at the time on my phone: 8:03 p.m. Two solid hours.
Enough for a shower, some decent clothes, and maybe even a nap that won’t actually happen.
My body feels loose and wired at the same time, the kind of exhausted that doesn’t want rest—it wants noise, lights, people who don’t know anything about my trauma.
I type back quickly, thumbs moving before I can overthink it.
Charlie: I’ll meet you there at 10. Save me a seat.
I hit send, then toss the phone onto the little table beside my easel.
The painting stares back at me—Hunter’s relaxed mouth, the imagined soft rise and fall of his chest under Sofia’s tiny body, the way the light hit his skin last night.
Something tightens low in my gut, equal parts warmth and dread.
I stand, stretching until my spine pops, and head for the bathroom. The hot water is going to feel like heaven. And maybe, just maybe, tonight I can pretend I’m just another messy kid in the city instead of the one still carrying conversion therapy ghosts on his back.
Two hours later, I’m locking my apartment door behind me, hair still damp, eyeliner fresh, wearing the tightest black jeans I own and a cropped hoodie that shows a strip of skin when I move.
The night air hits me as I step outside, loud and alive, exactly the way I like it.
The Spot is only a ten-minute walk. Plenty of time to let the city noise drown out everything else.
I pull my phone out one more time and fire off another text to Lucy.
Charlie: On my way. See you soon.
Then I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking, the distant bass from somewhere down the block already calling my name.