Page 143 of His To Erase

Time’s slippery when your stomach’s full of guilt and your head’s packed with someone else’s ghosts.

Then I hear footsteps getting closer to the door. The knob shifts and the door creaks open an inch. And there he is, bare chest, with low-slung sweatpants clinging to his hips like gravity’s got a personal grudge against me.

His muscles are cut and cruel, like someone carved him out of control and violence and left the mercy out on purpose. His tattoos snake down one arm and curl over his ribs—ink and shadow dressed up as art, flickering with the firelight behind him. And his eyes—those fucking eyes—are locked on mine.

He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to drag me to hell or let me keep thinking I’m not already there. He just stands there in the doorway like a goddamn warning, carved out of restraint and barely leashed fury.

And at that moment, I knew.

He knows.

I sit up halfway, throat dry, heartbeat in my ears. Ready to... I don’t even know.

Apologize? Explain? Lie?

I meet his gaze and try not to flinch. After a beat, his voice cuts through the silence. “Stay out of my fucking office.”

The door shuts—but he might as well have slammed it. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding, but I don’t move. I just stare at the crack under the door, hoping he doesn’t come back.

Ani

Icould blame it on the fact that I’m tired. Or half-dressed. Or that he’s terrifyingly hot and just caught me elbow-deep in the graveyard of his past. But none of those excuses fix the fact that I crossed a line.And I didn’t even find what I was looking for.

I swing my legs out from under the blanket, pad over to the door, and lock it.

Knowing full well that it wouldn’t stop him, but it makes me feel like I have some kind of choice left.

I crawl back into bed, dragging the blanket around my shoulders like it can shield me from myself, and curl onto my side.

It’s pathetic, I know. But the guilt hits harder than I expected. I wasn’t looking for connection, I was supposed to find proof. Red flags. A knife. Anything to confirm that I’m still the girl who can’t trust anyone.

But instead… I found her.

The girl with the scraped knee and the sweatshirt too big for her body. The soft smile, and the kind of happiness that doesn’t last.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it owes me answers. Why this—of all things—hurts.

It feels like I touched something fragile, and now it’s bleeding in my hands. And maybe for the first time since I ran… I don’t feel like a problem to be fixed. I just feel wrong.

That note—scrawled on the back of one of the photos.“First smile in months.”Wrecked me because it made him real. Not just the monster in my head, but someone who held on to her smile like it meant something. Like it still does. And I hate that I care.

I press my fingers to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut until they burn. One tear, that’s it. That’s all I’m allowing. I wipe it away before it even dares to slide down my cheek.

“God, I’m such a mess,” I whisper to the dark. “I’m gonna need a whole new trauma just to cancel this one out.”

From the other side of the door, I hear a sigh.

Bernadette.

I drag myself up and unlock the door before I can talk myself out of it and she trots in like she’s been waiting all night for the cue.

“Hey, menace,” I mumble.

She doesn’t hesitate—just leaps onto the bed with the grace of a linebacker and drops her head across the bed like she’s claiming me.

“I didn’t say you could,” I mutter. But I don’t move her, because the truth is, it’s exactly what I needed. I crawl back under the blanket, her body warm and heavy against mine, and I fall asleep.

The light streamingthrough the window is blinding. Which is great, considering I’m pretty sure I’ve just woken up from a coma.