Page 47 of His To Erase

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, I always 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.

I actually laugh—a real one this time. It slips out before I can stop it. A look flashes across his face and that’s the part that scares me more than anything. I feel almost... Okay. Like maybe being here—being seen—doesn’t feel as wrong as it should.

He pushes off the doorframe and walks into the kitchen like he owns it, which, okay, fine, he does—but still. I didn’t hear him come in, which means he could’ve been watching me this whole time.

“Where did you even come from?” I ask, needing the subject change like oxygen.

He pulls out a different container and pops it in the microwave.

“And why’d you let me sleep all day?” I ask, even though the answer probably won’t matter. “What if I had to work?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t.”

I start to stand—some half-formed attempt to clean up or act like I’m not making myself at home in a stranger’s house. But before I can fully rise, his voice cuts in.

“Sit. Stay there, and eat.”

I freeze. Then slowly sink back down onto the couch, heart thudding way too hard for a man who just told me to keep eating.

He nods toward the container like that’s the end of the conversation—and maybe it is, because I don’t argue.

I look down at the food and take another slow bite.

I will not let him intimidate me. Clearly.

Apparently, that’s who I am now—a girl who listens when told to stay.

But honestly? I’m not even mad about it.

Hagrid’s about to kick the door down, and I’m two bites deep and too emotionally compromised to pretend otherwise.

I tuck one leg under me, shove in another forkful, and try not to let it mean anything.

This is probably the first meal I’ve had in days that didn’t taste like cardboard.

The food is actually… incredible. Like five-star, perfectly seasoned, totally-unfair, amazing. And of course it is, because why wouldn’t the emotionally unavailable sex god I’m currently crashing with also moonlight as a gourmet chef?

“Dangerous and domestic,” I mutter under my breath. “Should be fucking illegal.”

Bernadette—who ditched me the second Steven walked in, probably to avoid being caught eating couch-spilled contraband—reappears. She pads over, tail flicking with zero shame, and flops down beside me like she didn’t betray me at all.

I side-eye her, but she blinks up at me, innocent as hell.

“Oh, now you show up?” I mutter, scratching behind her ear. “Just in time. Real supportive, B.”

She huffs, settling in like she’s ready for the show.

“Traitor,” I murmur, still petting her. “You belong to me now. Hope you’re ready for codependency and emotional damage.”

I glance up, fork halfway to my mouth, just as Steven walks back into the kitchen—barefoot, and holding a container. He doesn’t look at me, he just sits down and starts eating like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I clear my throat, because of course I can’t help myself. “So when’d you get a dog?”

No answer. Just chewing. Like silence is his love language and I’m supposed to translate it.

“She wasn’t here the first time I came over.”

His eyes finally flick to mine, but the corner of his mouth doesn’t even twitch.

“Neither were you.”

My brows lift before I can stop them. “Wow. That’s the line we’re going with?”

He shrugs. Completely unfazed—like he didn’t just fry my central nervous system with a truth I don’t want to unpack.

“She came with the house,” he says after a beat. “Previous owners left her.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

I glance down at Bernadette, who’s smugly sprawled across my lap like she owns the whole couch. She gives me a slow blink like yeah, and what about it.

“So what—you just inherited a dog?” I gesture toward her with my fork. “Like a tax write-off?”

“She stayed.”

I pause. “She chose to stay? With you?”

That earns the tiniest twitch of his mouth. “She’s smarter than most people I know.”

He’s still looking at me when he says it. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Something flips in my stomach, low and hot, and I hate how fast I feel it. I stab another bite—sharper than necessary—and chew like that’ll help me to not feel how turned on I’m getting over literally nothing.

Nope, not doing this right now.

“Of course she stayed,” I mutter. “You probably grunted twice and opened a can of tuna and she was like, ‘yeah, I could build a life here.’”

He tilts his head slightly. “Jealous?”

“Of the dog?”

I don’t even know why I ask. My brain says no, but my body’s already halfway into writing vows while his eyes drag over me.

“Of anyone who gets to sleep next to me without biting first.”

My fork freezes mid-air and my brain short-circuits.

“You did not just say that.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just sits there—arms stretched across the back of the couch with his legs spread like he owns the oxygen between us. “You asked.”

“No, I made a sarcastic comment. You turned it into a scene from a low-budget porno.”

His gaze slides down my body like he’s mapping it out and my thighs clench before I can stop them.

“Still hungry?” he murmurs, like it’s not a question.

He’s close enough that I can smell his skin—he’s the worst kind of temptation—and my brain forgets how to function.

“That depends,” I say carefully. “You offering dessert or just judgment?”

He gives me the kind of smile that undoes girls who should know better. And I’m not sure that I do. Ignoring it, I shovel a bite into my mouth just to avoid making a sound I can’t take back.