Page 45 of Hunt Me

Archie and I haven’t exactly had time to have a heart-to-heart. It’s been a lot of stalking, and now, a lot of sex…not that I’m complaining about that, but I do prefer a little substance in my relationships.

But I’m not sure that’s Archie’s thing. I don’t know him well, but I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize signs of autism. The lack of eye contact, the stimming, the way he’s Deaf blunt in spite of not being raised in the community, and his selective mutism make it somewhat obvious, though I know better than to assume.

But if I’m right, then there’s a chance that Archie is going to need a relationship different from ones I’ve been in before. I trust my ability to meet my partner’s needs, but I don’t trust my ability to be a good boyfriend. I’ve failed at it for so long that, sadly, my fucking stalker has been the most stable presence in my life.

And fuck, I don’t know what that says about me.

But it doesn’t actually matter right now. The truth is, I’m not ready to give up on what Archie and I could be. It feels different. It’s not just hero worship either. It’s impossible to explain with words or signs, but something about him feels like I’ve known him for a thousand lifetimes, and I know that has to mean something.

Creeping to the edge of the bed, I stare down at him. He sleeps like the dead—irony, I think, considering how many times I’ve seen him in a graveyard and the fact that he has a fucking coffin in his room. But there’s so much life in him, even when he’s unconscious. His cheeks are rosy, lips parted on his breath and turned up in a faint ghost of a smile. I wonder what he’s dreaming about.

Pushing away, I wander into the bathroom and take care of my bladder, then squeeze a bit of Archie’s toothpaste onto my tongue and swish it with water before spitting and hoping that all the noise I’m making doesn’t wake him. My CIs are where Archie left them, and the battery probably isn’t going to last long, but I have a charger in my office, so I slip them on and wait for them to connect.

Sound filters in—nothing profound, just the low hum of his AC, and then a noise that takes me a second to realize is Archie’s breathing. I move back into the room, then carefully go through his drawers and find a pair of sweats and a T-shirt that I can use for the drive home.

They’re big on me, but I like the idea of wearing his clothes and taking part of him with me when I go. The fabric is soft and without any tags, and they’re clean, but they don’t smell like laundry soap or softener.

Dropping to the edge of the bed, I pull on my socks, then spy my shoes by the stairs and hesitate. I really do need to go, and I don’t want to wake Archie, but I’m also not sure he’ll appreciate it if I sneak out without saying a word.

Pacing the room as I hunt for a notepad, I spot dried flowers on his dresser, and suddenly, I get an idea. Gathering them into a delicate, fragile bouquet, I lay them on the nightstand. There’s an old coffee receipt on his desk and a pen that looks and feels like it might be made of real bone, so I scribble a note, then set it on top of the bouquet and stare down at my work.

It’s macabre and strange—just like the gift he left me. A preemptiveI’m sorryfor leaving without saying a word, but I have a feeling he’ll understand what it all means. And that I don’t want this to be the last time.

I arrange everything on the nightstand, then drink in his peaceful face one more time before creeping up the stairs and heading into the main house.

It feels different in the light of day. The curtains are open, and the place looks homey. Lived-in. The floral couch I first saw looks almost furry with how thick and worn the fabric is, and they have a boneless chaise under the side window that I missed before. There are several tables littered with trinkets, ferns hanging by each of the windows, and bookshelves in the dining room stacked with books to the point that it looks like some of them are about to topple over.

It’s strange to imagine Archie doing things the way most men his age would, like lounging on the couch, scrolling reels on his phone. But the truth is, I don’t think he does that. I think he spends a lot of time alone.

The thought might have been sad if I couldn’t tell that’s what he’d prefer.

Heaving a breath, I realize I’m a little lost. I went left instead of right when I came out of the basement, and now I’m not near the front door. I’m in the kitchen again, and I come to a skidding halt when I realize there are people in it.

I’m pinned by two sets of eyes that belong to Archie’s brothers from the cat café. Milo is hunched over the counter, both of his hands wrapped around a massive cup of what smells like coffee, and Percy’s halfway into buttering a bagel, though he’s frozen as he stares.

I clear my throat after a second. “Sorry. I was just, uh…looking for the front door.”

Percy points behind me. “To the right,” he says, then stops. ‘To the right,’ he signs with an apologetic look.

I wave him off, then tap the side of my processor. “I can hear you today.”

His brows lift, and he jerks his chin in acknowledgment. “Coffee?”

“Uh…”

“Have coffee,” Milo grunts.

I have a feeling that saying no is some kind of faux pas, and I also have a feeling that they don’t treat social faux pas in this house the way they’re treated in polite society.

“I can’t stay long, but thank you,” I say, hoping for a compromise.

Percy sighs. “Milo, be nice.”

“He fucked Archie last night. I don’t want to be nice.”

My face blooms hotly, and I wonder if that was a big no-no, but Percy groans and walks over, smacking his brother upside the head.

“Don’t make our guest uncomfortable. If you can’t be nice, leave.”