Page 162 of His To Erase

Harry screams and my throat does that awful, aching thing—like grief knows me too well to knock first.

I swipe at my cheek, fast, so he doesn’t see anything. The last thing I need is…

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re crying over the dog-wizard?”

My head snaps toward him, face burning. Heat flashes behind my ribs, because of the audacity of this man right now.

“Fuck you,” I spit, as my voice cracks.

He smirks, and it’s just cocky enough to make me feel seen.

“He was the only family Harry had left,” I say. Try to keep it light, but my voice cracks.

The smirk slips. “Didn’t realize dead godfathers hit you that hard.”

I grit my teeth, keeping my eyes on the screen like it’s going to save me.

“They don’t.”

He tilts his head, watching me.

“Sure,” he says after a beat. “You always tear up when guys fall through curtains?”

I glance at him through narrowed eyes and full defense mode. “You always act like you don’t feel anything?”

That gets him. His jaw ticks—barely. He lets the silence settle in like it belongs there.

Then softer—“You’ve got that look.”

My brow pulls tight. “What look?”

He shrugs one shoulder, all calm detachment, as if we’re not standing on the edge of something neither of us can come back from.

“Like you’ve lost something you never got back.”

The words land in a way that doesn’t register until it’s already too late. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest pulls tight and the air rushes out all at once.

The ache blooms behind my ribs—raw and familiar—and I feel the crack before I can pretend to brace for it.

I exhale hard, trying to push the air out fast enough, so that it’ll blow the moment away with it before I lose it completely.

“Anyway.” I fake a shrug, eyes back on the screen. “It’s just a movie. Fictional wizard-dad dies. Big deal.”

But the damage is done—and we both know it. He doesn’t push, so I fill the silence, because God forbid I ever let one sit too long.

“I think it’s the vanishing that gets me,” I say, crossing my arms tighter. “One second, someone’s in your corner—and the next? Gone.”

Steven tilts his head, that unreadable stare narrowing. But he says nothing, so I keep going.

“Maybe I’m still bitter,” I mutter, trying to laugh, but it cracks in my throat. “When I moved here, I didn’t speak English. Not really.”

I see him go still for two seconds before his body relaxes again.

“I was eight,” I say quietly. “They stuck me in a class and just... left me. Just—sink or swim.”

My fingers twist the hem of my shirt, anchoring me.

“I used to eat my lunch in the bathroom, because it was easier than trying to talk and explain why the words didn’t come out right.”