Page 43 of Hunter

I try to shrug it off, force a smirk, keep walking like it’s nothing. Just another sidewalk preacher in a city full of them. But my legs feel heavy. The breeze on my bare stomach suddenly feels exposing instead of freeing. My heart starts hammering too fast, too loud. Black spots flicker at the edges of my vision.

Not here. Not now. Not in the middle of the fucking sidewalk on a beautiful day.

I try to breathe through it, but the chant is already echoing in my head. Deliver us… deliver us… deliver us from perversion…

My sketchbook slips in my sweaty grip. The world tilts.

Then a solid hand lands on my lower back.

“Hey. Breathe.”

Hunter’s voice. Low. Rough. Right beside my ear.

I didn’t even see him appear.

He steps in front of me, broad shoulders blocking the preacher from view, his body angled like a shield. One hand stays on my back, the other gently takes my sketchbook before I drop it.

“Look at me,” he says, calm but firm. “Just me. Right here.”

My eyes find his. Dark. Steady. No judgment or pity.

“In through your nose…slow. Out through your mouth. I’ve got you.”

The preacher is still talking behind him, voice rising, but Hunter doesn’t even turn around. He just keeps his eyes on mine, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles against my spine through the thin fabric of my cropped shirt.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “They don’t get to touch you. They don’t get to decide shit about you. Just breathe with me.”

I try. The air stutters at first, then starts to even out. The black spots fade. My heart is still racing, but it’s no longer trying to punch its way out of my ribs.

Hunter stays right there, close enough that I can smell soap on his skin, his hand never leaving my back until my breathing steadies.

When the preacher finally gives up and moves on to the next sinner, Hunter’s shoulders relax a fraction.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

I nod, still a little shaky, but the panic is loosening its grip.

He doesn’t pull his hand away right away. His thumb brushes once more along my spine, almost absentmindedly, like he needs the contact as much as I do.

“Yeah,” I manage, voice rough. “Better.”

The city keeps moving around us. But for a moment, the only thing that exists is Hunter’s hand on my back and the strange, terrifying feeling of being protected by him.

He guides me away from the corner, one hand still resting lightly at the small of my back, steering me toward the little park I love a couple blocks over. We don’t speak. He just walks with me until we reach my favorite fountain—the one with the cracked stone basin and the water that sparkles when the sun hits it just right. Only then does he ease me down onto the bench.

I sit. He drops down right beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch. The second his hand leaves my back, I feel the loss like a missing weight. Cold rushes in where his palm had been.

“Panic attack?” he asks quietly.

I nod and swallow hard, staring at the fountain instead of at him. “Yeah. I don’t get them a lot. They normally happen in the middle of the night, coming out of a nightmare.”

I twist my lips to cut off any other information I might share.

Hunter stays silent for a beat, elbows on his knees, watching the water like it might have answers. When he speaks again, his voice is low, careful, the same tone he used when he told me to breathe.

“You handled it better than most people do when it hits them in public.” He pauses, then adds, almost like he’s admitting something, “I used to get them after… everything. Still do sometimes. They sneak up when you least expect it.”

I risk a glance at him. He’s not looking at me like I'm fragile. He’s watching me like he gets it.