Page 37 of Hunter

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.”