Page 118 of His To Erase

“Because I don’t want to, Sloane.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s a defense mechanism.”

I exhale sharply, ready to fire something snarky back—but I stop. Because suddenly my throat feels too tight, and my hands are shaking again.

She sees it too and her expression softens a little. So I give her something, because if I don’t, I might actually scream. “Someone broke into my apartment. I think.”

Her eyes lock on mine. “When?”

“Last night.”

She waits for me to keep going.

“I got home, and everything looked normal, but then when I woke up, I could tell something was off. My…” I hesitate. “I’m pretty sure my underwear was gone and there was a card.”

“A card?”

“Well, it was blank.” My voice goes flat. “It was just… sitting there. I don’t know. I don’t remember it being there before, and I know it’s not mine.”

She freezes for a split second, but I catch the way her fingers pause mid-air, the slight narrowing of her eyes. Then it’s gone. “So you found a blank piece of paper and probably did laundry?”

“That’s not all,” I mutter, “I’m getting texts.”

I feel her body shift beside me. “What kind of texts?”

I slide a book into place. “The kind that makes your stomach crawl and your skin want to peel off.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I pause, my hand hovering over the next book. “I thought I did,” I admit. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Sloane doesn’t push. She’s smart enough not to.

I glance sideways at her. “Don’t say anything helpful or validating. I’m dangerously close to having a breakdown, and I’m still on the clock.”

“I was going to say you look like shit.”

That earns a small, humorless laugh from me. “Thanks?”

She’s quiet again. “You need to be careful.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of the theme lately.”

“I’m serious, Ani. Do you want to come stay at my house?”

“No.”

I didn’t mean it to come out that fast, but she just nods, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, and says, “If you change your mind, I’m here.”

Then she walks away like she didn’t just pull a confession out of me with nothing but eye contact and a steady voice. I stare at the empty space she left behind, then slam the last book onto the shelf.

I’m not okay.

I know it. She knows it. And now the truth is sitting in the pit of my stomach like something rotten and I want to throw up.

I grab the cart, pushing it toward the end of the aisle, and detour straight to the break room like the shelves might collapse on top of me. The staff room is empty—thank God—and I sink into the hard plastic chair in the corner before my knees decide to give out.

I can still feel the words from the last text humming under my skin like a second heartbeat.Touch what’s mine.It sounds a lot like something Steven would say, and I keep wanting it to be him. Because the alternative—that it’s someone else entirely—terrifies me more than I want to admit.