Page 23 of Hunter

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” I say, keeping my voice steady, even though my heart is hammering. “You’re hurting. You’re angry at the world. And right now, you’re drunk enough that you aren’t thinking straight. I’ve been that person before, Hunter. The one who believes they are too broken to be loved.”

His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump.

“You don’t know shit about me, pretty boy.”

“Again, not really the insult you think it is,” I say dryly. In fact, I’m pretty sure the gruff rumble of his voice saying that will star in my fantasies later.

His lip lifts in a snarl, but the effect is ruined when he turns and stumbles back to the dumpster and starts puking up the contents of his stomach through the side door. Gross. But the stupid little caretaker inside of me closes the distance. I hesitate briefly before my hand lands on his back.

Even through the thin fabric of his shirt I can feel the solid heat of him—the hard ridges of muscle shifting under my palm as he heaves, the way his back tenses and releases with every violent retch.

My fingers brush his shoulder blade, carefully avoiding the area where I can see the bandages beneath his shirt. His body flinches when I get too close, so I slide my hand lower, reaching up with my right hand and resting it on the thick curve of his bicep. The muscle there is rock-hard, corded, and trembling with the effort of staying upright.

The fact that my brain immediately goes to being put in bicep jail is a problem. But man, his muscles are perfect, and I am only a guy who hasn’t had sex in a few months, since that Wall Street guy. So of course I’m going to think of that shit.

I run my hand over his bare skin where the sleeve has ridden up. He’s burning up, skin fever-warm beneath my touch, and the sheer size of him makes something low in my belly tighten even as my heart aches.

He’s so warm. So solid. So dangerously alive under my palm.

When the retching finally stops, Hunter straightens slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard. He doesn’t pull away from my touch. If anything, he leans into it for half a second like he’s too exhausted to pretend he doesn’t need it.

I don’t move my hand.

“Come on,” I say, voice quiet but firm. “I’m taking you home.”

Hunter laughs, rough and bitter. “The fuck you are. I don’t need a babysitter, pretty boy.”

I tighten my grip on his bicep, feeling the muscle jump under my fingers. “You don’t have a choice. If you step in front of a subway train tonight, I’d have to live with knowing I could have stopped it. So you’re coming with me. End of discussion.”

He stares down at me, hazel eyes glassy with alcohol and something darker, chest still heaving with heavy breaths. For a second, I think he might argue, might shove me away, might do any of the violent things his body looks built for.

Instead, he just sways again, the fight draining out of him all at once.

“Fine,” he mutters, voice low and defeated. “Whatever. Just… don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind.

I slide my arm more securely around Hunter’s waist, feeling the solid, fever-warm weight of him lean into me like he’s too exhausted to pretend he doesn’t need the support. He’s heavy—all broad muscle and barely-leashed tension—and every step makes my fishnets rub against my jeans while his bigger frame sways against mine.

This is a terrible idea.

I know it is.

Taking a drunk, grieving, angry firefighter back to my apartment is the exact kind of bad decision I promised myself I’d stop making. But the thought of leaving him on the sidewalk, swaying and puking and muttering about not deserving kindness, feels worse.

So I steer him toward the subway, ignoring the way my heart is hammering and the way his low, grumbled curses vibrate against my side.

The ride is mostly silent. Hunter slumps in the seat next to me, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. I keep my hand on his arm—not quite holding him, but close enough that I can feel every shift of muscle when the train jolts. It’s only so I can stop him from falling forward if he passes out. He smells like beer and vomit and something faintly like hospital antiseptic, but underneath it all, there’s the clean, woodsy scent.

When we finally reach my stop and climb the stairs to my building, Hunter is leaning heavier on me, muttering under his breath about “stupid soft boys” and “should’ve stayed on the futon.”

I unlock my door with one hand, the other still steadying him, and push it open.

The apartment is dark except for the small lamp I left on for Sofia. Relief hits me hard and fast when I glance toward the corner—the painting of Hunter is turned to the wall, safely hidden after it tormented me for a few days. Thank God. The last thing I need right now is him seeing his own raw, angry face staring back at him from my easel.

Sofia gives out a meow of welcome, stretching lazily next to the window.

Hunter stumbles inside and immediately collapses onto my couch like his legs just gave up. The cushion creaks under his weight.