Page 59 of Seeing Grayscale

“Ketchup.” He briefly eyes the digit before popping it in his mouth and licking it clean.

With a battle drum in my chest, I hurry to take a drag and look anywhere other than his mouth. “I made it weird, didn’t I?” he asks.

“What? What was weird?” My brain is misfiring.

“I didn’t mean to cross any lines. You just had ketchup on your face and—”

His abrupt pause makes me glance his way again. That nervous rake of his hand, the way his shoulders draw up, and the harsh exhale past his mouth is so fucking sad. In fact, so much about this man is heartbreaking. He seems so alone,trappedeven. I know it’s stupid to care. I know I should keep my emotions locked down, but I’ve never seen someone look so distraught over trying to be kind.

He wasn’t weird.

Nothing about Hunter is weird, I’m coming to realize.

Without considering the consequences, I take one last drag, toss the cigarette, and make my choice. His eyes snag on mine as I take the three steps closer.

“I didn’t want to wipe it on my pants—it’d stain—” I cut him off by wrapping my arms around his middle.

For a moment, he’s shocked, body rigid, so I squeeze him tighter. I won’t pretend this hug doesn’t affect me. It’s been so long since anyone hugged me, but I feel it’s been even longer for Hunter.

When has anyone ever given a crap abouthim?

Slowly, his muscles soften as he gingerly wraps his arms around me. My face is pressed into his collarbone, and our chests flush. I haven’t felt this fuckingsafein ten years. Not since the last time I hugged and kissed my parents goodbye.

Doesn’t he get it? Can’t he see it?

Hunter isn’t the one who is going to make this weird.

I am.

Hunter pulls away first, his eyes unsure. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, regret filling me with speed. Sure, we’ve talked over the past few weeks and shared a space, but we don’tknoweach other.

I’m simply latching on prematurely.

I’m doing what I swore up and down that I wouldn’t.

Fuck, I need to get a grip.

Awkward now, I chew on my thumb, side-eyeing my still-lit cigarette and wondering if he’d judge me if I picked it up.

“What was that for?” he asks.

My vocal cords crackle as I choke on my words. A bunch of creepy noises come out, and I decide I don’t care if he judges me. I swoop the cigarette off the ground, about to pop it between my lips, but his hand grips my wrist. “Don’t smoke that,” he urges. “I’ll give you a new one.”

The hold on my wrist tightens, and my fingers open automatically. With a quick step of his fancy shoe, he squashes the cherry. “The ground is filthy,” he mutters, releasing me and plucking the pack back out.

“Clearly, you never drank from a water hose,” I say, finding my voice again.

He snorts. “I did not.”

“It’s good for you. Dirt makes you tough.”

A visible body shudder ripples through him before he offers me mycleancigarette. Oh, the irony.

I remember hearing from one of Tammy’s regulars that they used to put cat piss in cigarettes. I don’t know if that’s true, but clearly, he isn’t concerned with cancerous chemicals—only dirt.

“I was never tough,” he comments, lighting the end for me once more.

“Considering what you’ve told me,” I start, blowing out my drag, “I’d say you are.”

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