Page 5 of His To Erase

I feel a quiet hum under my skin. The one that always stirs when he looks at me like that. But want and trust aren’t the same thing, so I keep walking. I’ve noticed the way his mouth tilts when he watches me approach, and the closer I get, the stronger I can smell him.

"You clean up nice," he says, while his eyes drag over my outfit with something unreadable.

"So do you," I deadpan. "Shame it’s wasted on this place."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were starting to like me."

I tilt my head. "Not even a little."

His grin widens, like he sees right through me. He steps closer, offering his arm. "Shall we?"

I don’t take it, but I do follow him inside.

The restaurant is too much.

It’s all dark wood, gold accents, and chandeliers dripping with crystals.

It’s the kind of place where the wine costs more than my rent and the silverware probably has a better pedigree than I do.

A quiet hum of conversation fills the space, broken only by the occasional chime of glass meeting glass.

Frank definitely belongs here.

The moment we step through the doors, heads turn. Not because he demands attention, but because he wears power like a second skin.

He just places a hand at the small of my back, and mutters something about reservations to the hostess who’s currently drooling over him.

She just nods, grabbing two menus, and leads us through the maze of white tablecloths and expensive conversation.

I slide into my seat, stretching out my legs like I don’t care about the stares we’re getting. Which I’m sure are due to my outfit choice. If I knew I had to go prom dress shopping to eat here, I would have definitely found a way out of tonight.

Frank watches me, amused, as he settles into his own seat. "What?"

I prop my chin in my hand, tapping my fingers against my cheek. "Nothing. Just wondering how many threats it took to get a table like this."

His smirk curves, slow and lazy. "What makes you think I had to threaten anyone?"

I arch a brow. "Because men like you don’t ask for things. They take."

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind his eyes. "And yet, here you are. Voluntarily."

I scoff, reaching for the menu. "We’ll see how voluntary it feels by the end of the night."

He laughs, and I hate that the first thing I notice is how good he is at this. Not just the date—though, yeah, he’s excellent at that—but the way he reads people, adjusts, and plays the role perfectly.

“Tell me something true about you,” he says at one point, watching me over the rim of his glass.

I smirk. “I think most rich people are deeply miserable.”

He grins, unfazed. “That’s a cop-out. Tell me something real.”

I tilt my head, pretending to think about it. “Alright. I like thunderstorms. The louder, the better.”

He nods, like I just revealed a profound secret about my soul. “Good answer.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they detach. What is this, a game show? Cool, Frank. Would you have sent me home if I’d said sunshine and puppies?

“Your turn,” I say instead, leaning back and pretending I’m not already questioning all my life choices that led me to this table. Again.

He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle and not in a good way, but also, not in a bad way.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the silence sit between us for a beat too long. “That supposed to impress me?”

His mouth curves just enough to count as a smirk. “Just letting you know what kind of man I am.”

Oh, good. A warning. Like I haven’t heard that one before. He’s charming, witty, and smooth in ways that should set off every internal alarm I’ve got hardwired into my spine. But somehow… it doesn’t.

Dinner lasts longer than I expect, but I laugh more than I should. So I guess that’s a win. And somewhere between the second glass of wine and the third story about his supposedly tragic childhood, which may or may not be real—I haven’t decided, I forget to keep my guard up.

When he walks me outside, the city buzzes softly around us like it’s in on something I’m not. I realize—I actually had a good time. And I hate that.

I should’ve hated every second of it, or found a reason to leave halfway through. Hell, I should’ve rolled my eyes and made some excuse about an early shift or a sick cat or literally anything else.

But instead, I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of a restaurant I never would’ve chosen, staring at him in the soft glow of a streetlight, and I don’t feel like leaving. And he knows it.

He’s watching me with that smug, satisfied look like I’m the prize. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ve stopped resisting.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly as he watches me. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

I raise a brow. “About what?”

His smirk is lazy, and smug. “You like me.”

I snort, shaking my head. “You’re tolerable at best.”

His eyes flick over me, slowly. “That’s a step up from last week.”

I roll my eyes, already reaching for my phone to see how close the Uber is. “You’re exhausting.”

He grins like that was exactly the answer he was expecting. “You may have agreed to one night, but I don’t think you realize how patient I am.”

He leans in closer, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “I’m just glad I found you when I did.”

The Uber pulls up and I take a step toward the door, barely resisting the urge to sprint, because as much as I like Frank, I’m not sure I want to kiss him.

Behind me, he’s still standing there with that same self-satisfied smirk—the one that’s been tattooed onto his face since the moment he decided I was worth chasing.

Or collecting. I still haven’t decided which.

I grip the door handle, already crafting the perfect non-goodbye in my head. Something neutral and dismissive, but cold enough to make a point.

He opens his mouth to say something—probably clever, but definitely unwanted. I don’t give him the satisfaction, I just slide into the car, dead silent, and let the door slam shut between us like a punctuation mark.

When I’m not at the bar, I work at the library. It’s quiet, predictable, and full of stories that aren’t mine.

I like it that way.

Most people here don’t talk, and if they do, it’s in whispers. No forced small talk. No fake smiles. No one asking what I’m doing later or if they can buy me a drink.

It’s just shelves and silence and the comforting hum of old HVAC and the smell of old books.

I push a cart of returns through the aisles, the scent of dust, paper, and worn leather curling around me like a weighted blanket I actually want.

The library is nearly empty—exactly how I like it.

A few regulars hover in their usual corners, and there’s a pair of students whispering over a laptop.

At one table there’s always this one retired guy who smells like peppermint and sadness, and then there’s the occasional lost soul flipping through pages like they’re looking for something they can’t name.

I shelve a few books, fingers trailing over familiar spines as I move through the stacks. There’s something grounding about this place. About the fact that it doesn’t ask anything of me.

Here, I don’t have to be the bartender with the forced smile, swatting off attention I didn’t invite. I don’t have to be the girl looking over her shoulder, pretending she’s not still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I can just… be.

Occasionally, Sarah shows up with coffee and chaos energy, pretending to browse while whisper-yelling at me from across the aisle like she’s physically incapable of respecting the sacred quiet.

We close the bar together most nights—so naturally, she knows all my secrets and exactly how many shots it takes before I start making death threats or bad decisions. Sometimes both.

She’s the only one who gets a pass and she knows it.

I slide another book into place, then pause when my eyes catch the next one in the pile.

The Art of War.

A little on the nose, but fitting.

I smirk and shelve it anyway. If nothing else, the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

"You always look like you’re plotting something when you’re in here," a voice says behind me.

It’s a low, deep kind that hums along your spine before your brain can catch up. And just like that, I’m on alert.

Every survival instinct I’ve ever developed clicks into place as I turn my head. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of the blank stare. The casual, don’t-fuck-with-me deadpan. I’m already prepping to tell whoever it is to mind their own business and choke on a dictionary. And then I see him.

Oh.

Well.

Shit.

He’s tall.

Like... tall.

Which, okay—not hard to accomplish when you’re five-foot-one on a good day with boots and vengeance.

But this guy?

This guy would feel like a giant even if I were standing on a chair with a weapon.

It’s not just the height. It’s the way he holds himself. He doesn’t just take up space—he owns it.

I’m 100% certain the air bends around him and the walls asked permission to still be standing.

He’s all muscle and menace wrapped in an exhale of total control. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flirt. He just exists like a problem I haven’t solved yet. That should be my first red flag.

A big, neon, flashing red flag.

But instead, my brain short-circuits and my body does that annoying thing where it forgets I’m not supposed to feel anything right now.

I cross my arms. Mostly to keep from folding and partially to remind myself that I’ve been through worse than whatever this walking testosterone ad is selling.

I know I’m staring, but he has perfect hair, that’s dark and messy—thick enough to grip, and careless in the kind of way that says he ran a hand through it once, then let the rest burn.