Page 32 of His To Erase

When his eyes lift mid-sentence, and he sees me, everything shifts. The man across from him is still talking—something clipped and serious—but Frank doesn’t even glance his way. Just lifts a hand, silencing him mid-word.

The man follows the gesture, turns, takes one look at me, and walks away without another word.

I don’t move, because if I do, I might run.

Frank’s gaze drags down my body, slow and possessive, like he’s taking inventory of something that already belongs to him. I roll my eyes, and his mouth curves into that familiar, disarming smile—the one that used to make me feel safe.

Now it just makes me want to slap it off his face.

He stands—fluid, and polished. Every inch the man who gets what he wants.

“Ani,” he says, all warmth and practiced charm. “You look…” His eyes sweep me again, slower this time. “Dangerous.”

I tip my chin. “Yeah? So do you. Especially when you’re ordering hits over whiskey.”

His smile doesn’t waver. Not even a twitch. If anything, it spreads into something cooler, more calculated.

“Come on,” he says, waving it off like I accused him of stealing a parking spot. “It’s not as serious as it sounds.”

Not serious. Right. Totally casual.

I arch a brow. “You sure? Because it sounded pretty fucking serious from where I was standing.”

He chuckles, and it grates on something buried deep in my spine.

“Business, baby. Sometimes people need reminding.”

There’s that word again. Baby.

A week ago, I might’ve laughed. I might’ve even let him.

But I’m not the same girl he took to dinner last time.

Not after what happened in the alley. Not after Steven.

I still don’t know what the fuck to do about him or whatever the hell is clawing at the back of my brain like it wants out.

Ever since I met Steven, there’s this side of me that I’m not sure what to do with.

Still, I smile, even though it’s fake as hell. I still don’t know where Frank and I stand anymore, but I’m inclined to think I need to stay single forever.

Frank extends a hand like the perfect gentleman. “Come on, baby. Our table’s ready.”

I hesitate, glaring at him. Only for a second, but I make sure he sees it. Something flickers in his eyes, like he’s humoring me.

The music swells behind us, and his fingers brush the small of my back with just enough pressure to feel like possession.

“Is this your version of not staying?” I ask, looking around. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like staying to me.”

His smile sharpens a fraction. “There’s a difference between drinking here and dining here,” he says smoothly. “I have a private table. You’ll like it.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before guiding me through the club. The second his fingers wrap around my bicep, I flinch. Pain jolts through my shoulder, but I don’t say anything.

He must have noticed, because his grip loosens, and he adjusts his hand, moving it back to the small of my back.

He leans in close and his mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” he murmurs. “Until I want to.”

He steers me past the velvet ropes toward a private booth tucked into the shadows, where a bottle of wine is already waiting. He’s pulling out all the stops, it would seem.

Frank slides into the booth like he’s settling into a throne, and nods for me to join him.

I move carefully, even though my shoulders still stiff from the strain of pretending I’m fine. The leather squeaks as I sit down, and I resist the urge to lean back too far—my ribs aren’t up for the performance tonight. I definitely should’ve bailed.

He picks up the bottle and pours himself a glass first, then grabs the second glass sliding across the table before he lifts his own and holds it up.

“Let’s toast.”

I lift my glass, but I don’t clink his. Instead I just take a sip. The wine’s dark and expensive and does absolutely nothing to dull the buzz already building behind my eyes.

“What exactly are you trying to toast?” I ask, setting my glass down with a faint click.

His smile widens. “To us. To the future.”

I study him. His words are casual, but there’s something underneath. Something he isn’t saying out loud. Frank is a really nice guy, and we’ve been doing this weird exchange since the moment I met him.

“I didn’t realize we had one,” I say lightly, tracing the rim of the glass with one finger.

He laughs at that, like I just said something adorable. “We do,” he says smoothly. “You just don’t see it yet.”

I sit a little straighter, even though my ribs protest. “Frank—this isn’t a relationship. We’re not—”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Details, baby. All that matters is we’re here now. Together.”

I take another sip, letting it sit on my tongue like I’m someone who actually enjoys this shit, then set the glass down and lean back slightly.

It’s too sour—just like every other overpriced bottle men like him use to impress.

But I still lift my chin and watch him over the rim like I’m impressed anyway. Because that’s what this is, right?

“You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner like a normal person.”

Frank’s smile twitches. “I tried that. You kept telling me no, remember?” He tilts his glass toward me in mock cheers. “I figured direct action might get better results.”

“Direct action?” I echo, eyes narrowing. “Is that what we’re calling this now?”

He laughs. Actually laughs. And somehow, it’s worse than if he hadn’t. “You always were dramatic.”

“Right.” I fold my arms. “Because that totally screams romance.”

He leans in slightly, resting his forearm on the table, his voice is soft but full of bite. “If I wanted to scare you, Ani… you’d know.”

My jaw clenches, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I raise a brow. “Was that supposed to be comforting?”

Frank shrugs, calm as ever. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I’m here, because we’re friends.” I echo, matching his tone. “Doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

His gaze darkens—just a flicker, but enough to catch. “You will.”

I let the silence stretch, then I smile. “So what is this then, Frank? A date? A business meeting? Another move on your weird little chessboard?”

He watches me like he’s deciding which version of me he prefers. Then, without breaking eye contact, he picks up his glass, swirls the wine once, and says, “It’s a reintroduction.”

“To what?”

He lifts his eyes to mine. “To the life that’s waiting for you.”

I stare at him. I don’t know what that means, but I already don’t like the way it sounds. This is not going at all the way I anticipated. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but this is what we do. He acts like we’re dating, I keep telling him we aren’t, and he never listens.

I tilt my head. “Is that the life you picked out for me, or do I get to participate in the decision-making?”

His mouth curves slowly. “Boundaries,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass, “can be… flexible.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t blink.

“And what makes you think I’d ever bend them for you?”

Frank sets his glass down with a soft clink and leans in again with his elbows on the table now.

“You will,” he says. “Because eventually, you’ll stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

My pulse skips. Uhh this is exactly why I don’t date. “Feel what, exactly?” I ask, lifting my brows. “The overwhelming need to delete your number and block you?”

He laughs, like I’m being adorable again. “No,” he says. “That pull between us. The inevitability of it.”

I roll my eyes. “Wow. You should write fortune cookies. Real poetic shit, Frank.”

His smile widens, but this time there’s something else behind it. He doesn’t blink when he says, “I’m not poetic, Doll. I’m persistent.”

The table suddenly feels too small.

“I’m not interested in being worn down,” I mutter, pushing my wine glass away.

His gaze sharpens. “Who said anything about wearing you down?” he replies. “I’m just waiting for you to come home.”

I freeze.

Home?

My stomach twists, and my ribs throb in time with a memory I can’t quite reach, and something in the back of my mind claws at the door like it’s trying to get out.

I mask it with a smirk. “Look, Frank… you don’t know—.”

“I know enough.” He cuts me off. A second later, his charm returns like a curtain dropping over a gun.

“That mouth of yours could get you in trouble someday.”

The words settle over me like smoke, making it hard to breathe through. They’re soft and smooth, but for some reason, every part of me recoils like he just pressed a knife to my throat and smiled. It’s not the words themselves, but it’s the way they land.

I know enough?

I shake it off and laugh. Because that’s safer than asking what the hell he meant. I don’t want him getting any more ideas.

“Frank,” I say, draining the rest of my wine. “If you don’t like what comes out of my mouth, you’re more than welcome to stop asking me out.”

He smirks. “Oh, I like it.”

He leans in, putting his hand on my thigh. “Doesn’t mean I won’t punish it.”

My stomach drops in that same nauseating way it does when you realize the ground beneath you isn’t as solid as you thought. I need air.

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” I say, already standing.

He doesn’t stop me, he just smiles. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

I flash him a grin, rolling my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I weave through the club, and every step makes me all too aware of the ache still pulsing in my shoulder. The heels don’t help, but I welcome the sting. It grounds me. It gives me something to focus on that isn’t the slow, hot crawl of panic threading through my bloodstream.

The hallway to the restrooms is dim, lined with mirrors and backlit with warm gold that makes everything feel surreal. Pushing the bathroom door open, I lock it behind me, and press both palms to the edge of the marble sink.

My reflection looks like a stranger with painted lips, a perfect dress and heels to match.

But her eyes look too wide.