Page 145 of His To Erase

“What the hell is this?” I mutter, yanking open the fridge and stop.

There are... meals. Like actual, perfectly prepped, macro-balanced, muscle-god meals.

“Who is this guy?”

I’m not going to complain. It explains the abs and the brutal cut of his body. My thighs clench without permission, just thinking about it. Heat blooms low and deep like my body’s staging a mutiny. Everything inside me tingles, traitorous and insatiable. I’ve never in my life met a man who brings out this type of reaction in my body, and I’m not sure if I should be excited or scared.

“Nope,” I mutter, closing the fridge so hard it thuds. “We are not doing this.”

I pause, and reopen it. I should make toast, or eggs, maybe something low-effort and morally neutral. Something that doesn’t taste like I’ve taken a bite out of his perfect, secretive, probably-murdery life. But then again—he’s not here. And I’m starving.

“Where the hell is he anyway?” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder. No Bernadette either, but there’s just enough silence to choke on.

Before I can think better of it, I yank a container from the fridge and pop it in the microwave, stabbing the buttons like it’s personal. “I’m eating this. And I’m not sorry.”

Still no sign of Steven.

I glance around the kitchen, then back at the couch like it might judge me. It feels wrong, making myself at home in a place that isn’t mine—in a house that belongs to a man who definitely knows how to make someone disappear without leaving a trace—but then again… I’m not going home right now, at least not until my landlord changes the locks.

Because home doesn’t feel safe anymore. It feels like questions I’m not ready to ask. So, I might as well get comfortable, or fake it until I do.

It takes me three tries to figure out the remote—because obviously nothing in this house is user-friendly unless it’s shirtless and brooding—and I finally land on Netflix. Once I find Harry Potter, it’s game over.

Comfort food. Comfort movie. Emotional band-aid applied with duct tape and denial.Check.

I curl up on the couch with the container balanced in my lap, the first bite slides into my mouth like temptation and salvation had a baby. I barely register how good it is at first—because Harry just found the letter in the cupboard, and goddammit, Ialways forget how much this part wrecks me. That look on his face. The quiet kind of hope. Like maybe magic can still crack through the misery if you wait long enough.

I pause, with the fork halfway to my mouth, completely sucked in. Warmth stings the backs of my eyes, or maybe it’s the food. Or exhaustion. Or that dangerous little part of me that still wishes I had a letter waiting somewhere for me too.

I blink and shovel in another bite like I can outrun nostalgia with protein and well-seasoned chicken.

I moan. “Oh my god. He cooks like this and has tattoos? What kind of unfair, walking orgasm-ass bullshit is that?”

I’m mid-bite when Bernadette bumps my elbow like the furry traitor she is, and the fork tips, sending food splattering across the cushion.

“Shit.” I stare at the mess. Then at her. “Hurry. Eat it.”

She just stares at me, stone-cold.

“Look, just eat it so it doesn’t look like I spilled food on the couch, that I’m probably not supposed to be eating on. You know him, he’s clearly a clean freak. Didn’t you see the fridge? The man’s unhinged.”

Bern blinks once, then casually turns and trots off like she wants no part in my felony-level upholstery disaster.

“Seriously?” I hiss after her. “You were supposed to be my accomplice.”

And then I hear a cough.

I freeze. Every cell in my body goes still like I’m prey who just realized the predator is watching. I turn slowly—because of course he’s there, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. His dark eyes are loaded with something that looks way too much like amusement for my pride to survive.

“You know you’re eating on my couch, right?”

“Yeah, but... in my defense, I’m also starving. And emotionally fragile.” I don’t even mean to say it out loud. But it slips out, coated in sugar and deflection.

His brow lifts. “You want me to get you a tray? Or a bib?”

I whip around, fork still in my hand like it’s a weapon. “Wow. Do you flirt with all your houseguests by implying they’re messy toddlers, or do I just bring out your inner asshole?”

His smirk deepens like he’s proud of himself, and it makes something flutter and twist in my gut.