Page 91 of Hunter

He clears his throat first. “I saw it earlier this week. Walked by and… there I was. All over the walls.” His eyes flick around the room for a second before coming back to mine. “I couldn’t stay away tonight. Not when I knew you’d be here.”

I swallow hard, my heart doing that stupid fluttering thing it always does around him. He looks…different. And my fingers itch to paint him. Guess some things don’t change. He might always be my muse.

“You look good, too,” I say quietly. “Sober.”

He clears his throat, as though he’s nervous. “I am. Have been since passing out at the therapy circle, actually. I’ve been doing the work. Therapy. AA. All of it.” His gaze drops for a second, then lifts again, vulnerable in a way I am not sure I’ve ever seen him. “I’ve missed you, though.”

The noise of the gallery feels very far away. All I can focus on is the way he’s looking at me, as though I’m still the most important person in the room.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

The words feel like stepping off a ledge, but they’re true. I’ve missed the way he looks at me. The way he makes the world feel quieter.

His voice is low, just for me.

“I know I apologized before, but I really am sorry for that night. I’ve been working on my shit, Charlie. I’m not fixed, not even close, but I’m trying. Every day.”

The honesty in his voice cracks something open inside my chest. He’s not trying to charm me or promise the world. He’s just standing here, raw and vulnerable in the middle of a crowded gallery, telling me the truth.

My fingers tighten around the stem of my champagne flute as emotions rush in.

“I can see that,” I say quietly. “You look… steadier. Clearer.”

Hunter lets out a small, self-deprecating breath. “Took passing out in front of the whole therapy circle for me to finally get it together. Not my finest moment.”

“You scared me that night,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

He presses his lips together and gives me a sad smile. “Wasn’t my intention. I was pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

We stand there for a moment, the weight of that night hanging between us. The memory of him stumbling into group, slurring and angry, still makes my stomach twist. But seeing him now—sober, clearer-eyed, standing here like he’s actually trying—softens something in me.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, voice quieter. “I was worried about you.”

Hunter’s gaze drops for a second, then lifts again, vulnerable.

“I’m trying to stay okay,” he says.

I nod, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips for the first time since he walked in.

“Good. I’m proud of you for that.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the gallery disappears again. Just him and me, standing among all these pieces of our complicated history.

“I’m proud of you, too,” he murmurs, gesturing lightly at the walls around us. “All of this… it’s incredible, Charlie. You’re incredible.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache in the best way.

We don’t say anything more for a long moment. We don’t need to. There’s still so much unsaid, so much healing left to do, but right now, in this crowded room filled with paintings of his face, it feels like we’re both taking one careful step forward.

Lucy hovers nearby, giving us space but staying close enough to intervene if needed. I catch her eye and give her a small nod. I’m okay.

Hunter seems to sense the moment is ending. He takes a small step back, respecting the distance.

“I’ll let you enjoy your night,” he says softly. “You deserve this. All of it.”

He hesitates, then adds, almost shyly, “If you ever want to talk… really talk… I’d like that. No pressure.”