Charlie
I skip the therapy meeting entirely.
I can’t even make myself walk in that direction.
The thought of stepping into that third-floor room with its ugly tile and mismatched chairs makes my stomach twist. Mostly because I know Hunter will be there—he mentioned it was court-ordered—and mentally, I’m nowhere near strong enough to sit across from him after that nightmare.
Not when I can still feel the weight of those adult hands on my shoulders, still hear the low chant, still see Hunter standing just outside the circle, watching. Not helping. Not stopping it.
So I stay away. I text Tim a vague excuse about feeling under the weather, then turn my phone on silent and spend the evening drifting through the city instead.
I force a tired smile and pick up the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering. “It’s normal. I’ll crash eventually. Always do.”
She doesn’t buy it. She waits until the server takes our order and then fixes me with that sharp, no-bullshit stare she’s perfected over the years.
“You were doing better,” she says quietly. “The last couple weeks you actually looked like you were getting real sleep. What happened?”
I shrug, tracing a finger along the condensation on my water glass. The nightmare flashes behind my eyes again. I shove it down.
“Bad dream. Old stuff. It’ll pass.”
Lucy reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers, thumb brushing over my chipped black nail polish. “You know I worry. You push too hard and then you crash hard. Let me come over tonight. I can stay on the couch, keep an eye on you while you sleep. Just in case.”
The offer is soft and genuine, and for a second, it makes my throat tight. Part of me wants to say yes. Part of me wants someone there so the ghosts don’t feel so loud when they come back. But the bigger part—the part that’s still raw from the dream—needs to be alone with it.
“I’m good, Luce. Really,” I tell her, squeezing her hand before pulling mine back. “I’m gonna hit the pole studio for a solo session after this. Tire myself out until my body has no choice but to shut down. It always works.”
She studies me for a long moment, lips pressed into a thin line. I can see the concern still sitting heavy behind her eyes, but she finally nods.
“Okay. But if you change your mind, you call me. Anytime. Even at 3 a.m.. I mean it.”
“I know. Thank you.”
The food comes, and we shift to lighter things—her latest dating disaster, the new book she’s working on, Mrs. Lovelady marking out another batch of slightly damaged supplies for me.
I laugh in the right places, eat enough to look normal, but the exhaustion sits bone-deep, and the nightmare still lingers at the edges of all my thoughts.
When we finally hug goodbye outside the restaurant, Lucy holds on a second longer than usual.
“Be careful with that pretty head of yours tonight,” she murmurs against my hair. “And text me when you get home, even if it’s late.”
“I will.”
I watch her walk away, then turn toward the pole studio a few blocks over, the night air cool against my face. My body is already aching for the burn—the stretch, the spin, the way everything else falls quiet when I’m upside down and fighting gravity.
Maybe if I push hard enough tonight, it will all stay quiet long enough for me to recharge.
I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking. The city that never sleeps keeps me company on the way.
I let myself into the studio with the copy of the key the owner let me and Luce have for our early morning sessions. Then I shed my shirt and drop my pants. My briefs are close enough to the spandex bottoms we use for performance. And I leave on my fishnets. Only thing missing is my heels.
The first chords of “Take Me to Church” crawl out of the gym’s ancient speakers, low and raw.
I grip the pole. Cold steel steadies the tremor in my hands as Hozier’s voice rasps—My lover’s got humor…—a lyric that always presses against me feeling like an old bruise.
I climb, thighs catching, arms stretching until the ground is an upside-down blur. Blood rushes to my head. The next line—she’s the giggle at a funeral—splits something in me wide open.
The drums build, and I let the music drag everything out of me: the years spent in conversion therapy, the prayers pressed into my skin, the nights I begged to be someone else.
Take me to church, I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.
I hook a knee and swing into a sudden drop. The pole scorches my skin, the fall steals my breath. For a heartbeat, I’m weightless, unbound.
When the last note fades, silence rushes. I slide to the mat, forehead resting against the pole, chest heaving. For once, the ghosts don’t speak.
A soft creak breaks the stillness.
I turn.
Hunter stands in the doorway, light from the hall catching the sharp lines of his jaw. His eyes are dark, startled, as though he’s just seen something he was never meant to.
He takes a step back, fingers brushing the doorframe. “I—” His voice comes rough, unsure. “I didn’t mean to—interrupt.”
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. “You didn’t,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Not really.”
He swallows, gaze dragging from the pole to my bare chest, then back up to my face. “I didn’t know you danced like that.”
“It’s not dancing,” I tell him quietly, still breathing hard. “It’s… breathing.”
Something flickers across his face—heat, hunger, maybe even awe—and he shifts his weight but doesn’t leave.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, low and rough, as though the words cost him something. “The way you move… fuck, Charlie. It’s beautiful.”
The compliment sinks warm and dangerous in my chest. I push up from the floor and reach for my pants on the floor, suddenly hyper-aware of how much skin I’m showing.
Fishnets still clinging to my legs, briefs riding low, sweat cooling on my ribs.
I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked.
I yank the pants up my thighs, fingers fumbling with the button. “So… what is this, Hunter?” I gesture between us. “First the bar, now here. Are you stalking me?”
He blinks, confusion flashing across his face, followed quickly by genuine-looking indignation. “What? No. Of course I’m not stalking you.”
I wave off the defensiveness with one hand, still breathing a little too fast from the routine. “Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything serious. I’m just saying…if you’re hoping for a quick fuck in the back of the studio or whatever fantasy you’ve got going, I’m not interested.”
The words hang between us, awkward and blunt. Hunter’s mouth opens, then closes. For once, he looks completely thrown.
I tug my shirt back on, suddenly needing the extra layer even though the studio is warm. My heart is still hammering from the pole, from the song, from him standing there watching me with hungry eyes.
“I mean it,” I add, softer now but no less firm. “I’m not looking to get tangled up with anyone from group. Especially not you.”
“I lost the love of my life,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t randomly fuck people. Especially not kids like you.”
I huff out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Kid?”
“Yeah, kid.” He gestures at me with his chin, eyes flicking over the fishnets and the cropped hoodie I’m now pulling on. “You’re barely twenty-one, max.”
“Twenty-two, actually,” I correct him, zipping up my hoodie with a little more force than necessary.
Hunter snorts, the sound almost bitter. “That’s the same thing. When I was twenty-two, the only thing I was thinking about was partying and hanging out with my friends. Not relationships. Not… any of this serious shit.”
I finish dressing and turn to face him fully, arms crossing over my chest like that might put some distance between us. The studio suddenly feels too small.
“Fucking isn’t a relationship,” I say flatly. “But now that you mention it… I don’t want either. Not with you. Not with anyone right now.”
I’m not ready to let anyone close enough to see the cracks, let alone touch them.
Hunter stays in the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw working like he’s chewing on everything I just said. The silence stretches between us, thick with unsaid things and the faint echo of Hozier still lingering in the air.
I can feel the pull anyway. That dangerous little warmth that flares every time his eyes stay on me too long. I shove it down hard.
The city hums outside the studio windows, loud and alive, reminding me I don’t need to invite more ghosts in tonight.
I slip on my shoes, trying to look more put together than I feel.
“I should go,” I mutter.
Hunter shifts, blocking the doorway just enough that I have to stop. “It’s late. City’s dangerous this time of night. Let me get you home safe.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “I’ve been navigating this city since I got here at eighteen. Trust me, it’s a lot less dangerous than where I came from.”
He doesn’t move right away. His dark eyes search my face like he’s trying to read every scar I’m not showing him. For a second, I think he might push it, might say something that cracks the walls I just reinforced even wider.
Then he steps back.
I follow him out, locking the door behind me with a soft click before dropping the key into my pocket. The night air hits my damp skin and makes me shiver.
“We ride the same subway,” he admits as we step back onto the sidewalk, voice low and a little rough. “So this is gonna be a bit awkward…”
I let out a short, tired laugh. “Then I guess you’re walking me to the subway.”
We fall into step, side by side, the city pulsing around us like it always does at this hour—sirens in the distance, neon bleeding across wet pavement, someone yelling at a cab a block away.
My legs still feel loose and warm from the pole, but the ache in my chest is back, heavier now that he’s walking next to me instead of watching from the doorway.
I guess I won’t be sleeping tonight either.
Hunter keeps his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the breeze. Every few steps, our arms almost brush. I hate how aware I am of it.
After a minute, he speaks again, quieter. “I meant what I said in there. About it being beautiful. Not trying to…I don’t know. Hit on you or whatever you think this is.”
I glance sideways at him. The streetlight catches the sharp edge of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. He looks tired. Older than twenty-two, that’s for damn sure. He’s at least in his thirties. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s hot.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound genuine. I take him at his word, even if part of me still doesn’t trust it. “For the record, if we were both in a better place, I would fuck you in a heartbeat.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Regret hits me instantly, like I just yanked the scab off something that wasn’t ready to bleed. Fuck. I blame the lack of sleep, the pole endorphins still buzzing under my skin, the way his eyes looked at me in the studio as if I was something worth watching. I shouldn’t have said that. Not to him.
Hunter doesn’t miss a beat.
“Noted,” he says, low and even, like I just told him the weather.
Heat floods my face. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and stare straight ahead at the subway entrance glowing ahead of us.
“Great,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “That was… smooth.”
We keep walking for a few more steps in painful silence. Then Hunter’s voice comes again, quieter this time, almost gentle.
“Hey…for what it’s worth,” he says, glancing sideways at me, “if we were both in a better place…I’d let you.”
His words are simple, and they don’t feel sleazy. It somehow makes my embarrassment feel less like humiliation and more like something shared. Something almost sweet.
I don’t know what to do with it.
My stomach flips hard. I can already feel myself tucking that sentence away somewhere deep, where I’ll pull it out later when the ghosts get loud again. The thought of Hunter, quietly admitting that he’d let me have him if things were different, it settles warm and dangerous in my chest.
I let out a shaky little laugh, trying to play it off. “Jesus Christ, don’t say shit like that right now. I’m running on zero sleep and bad decisions.”
He gives the smallest huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Noted again.”
We reach the top of the subway stairs. The rumble of an incoming train vibrates up through the concrete. I pause for half a second, cheeks still burning, heart doing something stupid.
Hunter stops beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brush.
He gestures down the stairs. “After you.”