Page 12 of His To Erase

Ani

By the time I get home, my body’s vibrating with exhaustion. Every step feels like it’s dragging through wet concrete.

I don’t even bother with the lights.

The glow from the streetlamp outside spills enough light through the blinds to make out the shapes of my furniture.

I drop my bag with a thud, pull off my boots, and collapse into the corner of the couch like it’s muscle memory.

The silence swells around me.

No music. No voices. No bar chatter or clinking glasses or the steady hum of the espresso machine from the library.

Just stillness.

I lean my head back, close my eyes, and try not to drift right back to the library. I can’t believe I fucking did that.

Who hooks up with some mysterious, tattooed God in the middle of a public library—on a damn ladder, no less.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I’ve gone over it a thousand times, replaying every second in my head like I’m trying to study the scene of a crime.

And maybe I am. It felt like I blacked out, like some reckless, unhinged version of myself shoved all the caution and survival instincts aside and decided, yeah, let’s ride this stranger’s face next to a goddamn copy of War and Peace.

I’m not even going to lie—that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done.

It should scare me. What he did—what I let happen.

But all I feel is this sick, dizzy hum under my skin.

Like I want him to do it again. The danger doesn’t register until it’s already touching me…

and that’s what really terrifies me. That’s the part of me that liked it.

My body still tingles when I think about the way he moved his tongue, and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted. The way he moaned against my cunt was like he was getting drunk off it.

It’s been days since I’ve seen him. Since he touched me. He ruined me with his mouth and left like he hadn’t just taken a piece of me with him.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

About how he stood there after—all smug like he hadn’t just turned my world inside out. Like…what the actual fuck?

He licked his fingers right there in front of me, making sure I saw every second. Then he looked up at me with that sinful mouth and had the audacity to say—"Next time, I won’t stop until your legs give out and you beg me to keep going anyway."

Next time?

I stood there for a full minute after, trying to remember how to breathe.

He’s a dangerous, walking red flag. The kind of man who smells like sex, secrets and bad fucking decisions.

I keep telling myself I should be relieved that I haven’t seen him again. That this was a one-time thing.

But the truth is, I don’t feel relieved.

I feel restless and on edge. Like something unfinished is coiling under my skin, waiting to strike.

The worst part is, I don’t even know his name. Which is probably for the best, a reminder to the logical part of my brain that this is why we don’t do these things.

He’s just some stranger who stepped out of the shadows and somehow saw all the way through me. And now I’m haunted by the memory of his mouth.

I force myself up off the couch, dragging my body toward the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day, unless you count coffee and a bite of someone’s leftover fries.

As soon as I open the fridge to find something to eat, everything goes black.

The lights vanish, and the hum of the fridge dies.

I blink, frozen for a second, waiting for it to turn right back on like it usually does.

Only nothing happens. I listen to see if I can hear anything, but all I hear is silence.

My fingers brush the edge of the drawer where I keep the flashlight, my pulse is a steady war drum in my ears as I try not to go straight to panic mode. I pull it open, slowly, like I’m waiting for something to jump out, grabbing the flashlight. Of course, it’s dead.

I set it on the counter, reaching for my phone to use the flashlight, only to realize I don’t actually know where I put it.

It’s too quiet.

I exhale through my nose, trying to slow my breathing, and turn toward the hallway.

The knock hits so hard and fast it sends me stumbling back.

The edge of the coffee table catches my shin as pain flares, sharp and immediate, but I barely register it through the jolt of fear flooding my system.

A strangled yelp claws its way up my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth before it can escape.

I cautiously move toward the door, every step weighted with the kind of dread you only feel when something is deeply wrong. My breath slows, and I press my eye to the peephole. No one’s on the other side.

Then it happens again.

Three sharp, deliberate raps. Only this time… it’s coming from the window.

Everything inside me locks up. My chest tightens, and the blood drains from my face, leaving me cold and weightless all at once. That window leads to the fire escape three stories up. It’s rusted and old—barely anyone uses it. No one should be out there.

I don’t move at first, I just stand there with my pulse hammering, and my heartrate climbing higher with every second that ticks by in silence.

Then—like an idiot—I walk toward it.

My legs feel disconnected from the rest of me, like they’re being dragged by something that doesn’t care if I make it back. The closer I get, the louder my heartbeat becomes.

I reach for the curtain, fingertips trembling, and tug it back—just enough to see that the landing is empty. The metal rails glint faintly in the ambient light from the alley, and the wind creaks through the frame like it’s breathing, but there’s no shadow. No movement. No one waiting in the dark.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, it’s shaky and uneven, like the fear’s still trapped somewhere in my chest.

Maybe it was debris, or maybe I imagined the whole thing. I slide the curtain back into place and turn away from the window, forcing the air back into my lungs. Which honestly, takes everything in me.

I grab my phone, which is now at 2% battery—and the charger from the floor. Then I open the drawer next to the microwave and take out the knife I’ve only ever used when I feel like it might help.

I like the weight of it in my hand. It makes me feel like I’d stand a chance if someone came through that door.

The whole building feels like it’s holding its breath as I crawl into bed fully clothed with the knife tucked under my pillow.

The moonlight filters through the window, casting long, thin shadows across the ceiling. They stretch and shift with every gust of wind.

I need sleep, tomorrow’s a double—library in the morning, then I close the bar. That’s twelve hours of pretending I’m fine and smiling when I have to.

At least Sarah will be there with me, which means I’ll get to pretend less and swear more.

Small mercies.

If I sleep now, I might survive it. But my eyes won’t close, that would be too convenient.

My thoughts won’t stop because something about tonight feels familiar, and that’s what scares me the most.

I roll onto my side, tucking the blanket under my chin and force myself to breathe slowly.

“Don’t act like you didn’t ask for this.”

The words hit like a bullet, ripping through whatever fragile peace I managed to scrape together.

I flinch—but I don’t move. I try to speak, but my mouth won’t open. My voice is gone.

“You think anyone’s going to care? After what you did?”

His voice is louder now, closer.

And suddenly—I’m not in bed anymore. I’m on my hands and knees, covered in blood. The floor’s cold beneath me, sticky with something I don’t want to name. I look up and see myself in a broken mirror. My mascara’s streaked, and my eyes are haunted.

There’s a ringing in my ears, and something sticky clings to the side of my face.

And then I wake up.

A gasp rips out of me as the knife clatters to the floor, breaking the silence like a gunshot. I lurch upright, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.

I’m soaked in sweat, shaking, and breathing way too fast. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Breathe, Ani.

Breathe.

I wish I could remember.

Or maybe I wish I could forget.

I just wish these dreams would stop hunting me in the dark like they know I won’t fight back.

I reach for the keyboard, fingers hovering for a beat before I type one word into the search bar: missing.

I hesitate, then add: Woman. Nothing specific.

Just enough to test the waters. I don’t know what I’m looking for.

An obituary. A name. A story that explains why my nightmares are getting worse.

Or maybe… I want to know if he’s still out there.

The man I haven’t talked about out loud in over six months. The one whose voice still crawls through my skull when I close my eyes.

I delete the words, my pulse suddenly hammering like I did something wrong just by typing them. What if he’s not dead? What if he’s looking for me? Watching? Waiting?

What if… he’s already found me?

I lean back, the chair groaning under me as I push away from the desk, rubbing my eyes. I just need a second. Just one second to close my eyes and reset before the bar.

I jolt awake to the sound of someone snapping gum way too close to my ear.

"Jesus, Ani. If you’re gonna nap on the job, at least leave me a note so I don’t think you’re dead."

I blink against the harsh overhead light, groaning as I lift my head off the desk. My cheek’s stuck to the surface and my spine feels like it’s been rearranged by a drunk chiropractor.

Sloane’s standing there, library lanyard slung around her neck, and her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Her blonde curls are piled on top of her head like she lost a brawl with a scrunchie and just walked away from the scene.

She’s smiling, but there’s concern in her eyes.

"Rough night?" she asks, tossing a stack of books onto the return cart.

"You could say that." I rub at the knot forming in my neck. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough that I started planning your funeral playlist."