Page 78 of Hunter

Then I hear him turn. Footsteps retreating down the hall, unsteady and slow, fading until there’s nothing left but the distant hum of the city outside.

The silence that follows feels heavier than the panic did.

Sofia winds between my legs, purring like she’s trying to stitch me back together. I pull her into my lap and bury my face in her fur, eyes burning again. A phantom ache still circles my wrists where he held them. My neck has little bruises lining it from his bites. And my body is still full of the fear and shame that came in when the flashback hit me.

Maybe I’m the one that needs to heal before I let someone fully in. I thought I was almost there, minus the sleepless nights and night terrors. But I was obviously lying to myself.

Hunter needs to heal, too. We both do. And trying to do it tangled up in each other like this…it’s only going to make everything worse.

I sit there on the floor for a long time, stroking Sofia’s fur while the tears slow to quiet, hiccuping breaths. Tomorrow, I’ll tell him. I’ll say we need space. That we both need to get our shit together before we drag each other down any further.

Even if it feels like ripping out my own heart to do it.

Because right now, with the ghost of his hands still on my skin and the memory of how safe I felt before it all went wrong, I know I’m already too far gone.

I just hope he understands.

I hope he doesn’t hate me for it.

I hope…I hope he heals, too.

I don’t know how long I stay on the floor. Long enough for Sofia to get bored and curl up in my lap, purring like a broken motor. Long enough for the tears to dry into tight, stinging tracks on my cheeks.

Eventually, the exhaustion wins.

I drag myself up, legs shaky, and stumble to bed. I don’t bother changing. I just pull the covers over my head, curl around Sofia, and let the quiet darkness take me.

Sleep is restless, full of half-formed dreams where hands hold me down and low voices chant prayers I can’t escape. But when I wake, the morning light is soft and steady through the windows.

A new day.

I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened still sitting on my chest. My body aches in places that have nothing to do with the physical. My heart feels raw.

I force myself out of bed anyway.

Shower. Clothes. Eyeliner to hide the redness in my eyes. I move through the motions, the same as always. When I step outside, the city is loud and alive, the same as always.

Heading for the store for my mid-morning shift, my legs eat up the distance.

Mrs. Lovelady welcomes me like an old grandmother and not like the boss she is. She’s behind the counter sorting a new shipment of brushes, her silver hair pinned up neatly, a soft floral cardigan draped over her shoulders.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she says, her voice warm as always. “You’re a little early today. Couldn’t sleep?”

I manage a small smile as I hang up my bag. “Something like that. The city was loud last night.”

She clicks her tongue, eyes crinkling with concern. “You look like you could use a good cup of tea. I just put the kettle on in the back. Go on, I’ll finish this.”

I hesitate, but she waves me off with a gentle hand.

“Don’t argue with an old woman, Charlie. Tea first. Work can wait five minutes.”

I nod and head to the small back room. The familiar scent of chamomile fills the air as I pour myself a mug. Mrs. Lovelady follows a moment later, carrying a tin of shortbread cookies she keeps just for us.

“Here,” she says, setting two cookies on a napkin beside my mug. “Eat. You’re too thin these days. All skin and bones.”

I take a bite, the buttery sweetness melting on my tongue. “Thank you. You always take care of me.”

She smiles, leaning against the counter with her own mug. “Someone has to. You’re a good boy, Charlie. You work hard, you’re kind to the customers, and you never complain, even when that one lady comes in complaining about the same set of watercolors every week.” She chuckles softly. “I don’t know how you stay so patient with her.”