Page 78 of His To Erase

Ani

The first thing I register is the silence. The kind that makes you feel like the world’s holding its breath. Light filters through the blinds in weak strips, casting gold across the bed sheets. My body aches in places I can’t name, my throat’s dry, and my chest is doing that annoying thing again.

That fluttery, jittery, anxious-flirty thing that only happened after I fell asleep in Steven’s arms. Which, obviously, was a terrible fucking idea. I should’ve known better. I don’t sleep like that—haven’t in years—and definitely not next to someone who could ruin me.

I stretch, dragging the blanket up over my bare chest and pressing my face into the pillow that smells like him—dark, woodsy, and sinful. God. I’m so screwed.

It’s not until I roll toward the nightstand that I realize two things at once. Steven is gone, and there’s a notecard on my nightstand. It’s sitting right on top of my phone.

My breath stalls. The last time I found one of these, it was blank.

Just a card without anything on it… I don’t even know what it meant.

Except maybe I do—because if this one is from him, does that mean so was the last one?

I’m not even going to think about that right now.

Looking down at this one, it has actual writing scrawled across it.

Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.

Don’t make me come find you.

– S

My body reacts like he just whispered it against my skin.

I can still feel his hand sliding between my thighs and his voice whispering filth into my ear.

I hate that it makes me smile, I hate that my stomach flips, and I hate that my heart does this stupid kick thing like he carved his name into it when I wasn’t looking.

I hate it because it means he got in. Past every wall I built, every don’t-touch-me edge I sharpened just to survive. He got under my skin and he made it feel good. And now I can’t scrub him out without bleeding.

He isn’t sweet. He’s war wrapped in sex and shadows. And yet this… this little gesture feels more intimate than all the ways he ruined me last night.

I swing my legs out of bed, the hardwood is cold against my bare feet. I’m still sore in places that remind me exactly how last night ended, and still too tangled up in the chaos to make sense of any of it.

I need caffeine.

And maybe a lobotomy.

I sit there for half a second longer than I should, staring at the note he left like it’s supposed to explain anything.

I march to the bathroom and scrub my face like it personally offended me, throwing on the first semi-clean outfit I can find.

A pair of black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and my favorite combat boots.

The hoodie still smells faintly like him—like smoke and that stupid, expensive soap he uses that should not make my stomach flip the way it does.

I spray perfume on just to spite it. My phone’s already buzzing with a message from Sarah.

Sarah : You up? Cuz I have donuts and possibly a crisis.

Perfect.

This is exactly the emotional energy I need.

I shoot her a quick reply—On my way. Save me one with sprinkles or I’m keying your car—then grab my bag, and head out.

The walk to Sarah’s is short, maybe ten minutes, but it’s enough to get my blood moving and knock some of the chaos out of my head. The morning’s cold enough to make my fingers numb, and the air smells like wet concrete and dried leaves.

I keep my head down, just in case. I know he said not to leave, but it’s just a few blocks, if he comes back before I do, I’m sure he’ll call me.

By the time I round the corner, I’ve half convinced myself that I’m fine.

That none of this means anything. What happened with Steven was just adrenaline and trauma and maybe a little too much skin.

When she opens the door in fuzzy socks and a pineapple robe and pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and chaos, something tight in my chest loosens for the first time all day.

“Okay,” she says, squinting at me like she already knows I’m lying. “What the hell happened to you?”

We end up on the couch ten minutes later, a donut box between us and her cat purring at our feet. The place smells like hazelnut coffee and a witchy Pinterest board come to life—with way too much vanilla and not enough sage.

Home.

“So,” she says, biting into a maple bar like it personally wronged her, “are we starting with the murdery one or the emotionally unavailable one?”

I blink. “That’s the same guy.”

“Oh right. Sorry.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and leans back dramatically. “Forgot we’re in the ‘handle your trauma solo’ chapter.”

I groan, flopping sideways into the cushions. “I didn’t tell either of them anything.”

“Steven included?” she asks, tone softer now, like she’s not sure if she’s treading on a landmine or sitting on it.

I hesitate, staring up at the ceiling like it might give me answers. “He knows something’s off. But I didn’t tell him everything, it didn’t come up.”

Sarah hums. “So you’re just… raw-dogging the emotional fallout?”

I shoot her a look. “You’re literally eating cheese puffs and donuts for breakfast. Don’t come at me.”

“I’m coping,” she says, pointing one at me like a threat. “You’re spiraling in silence, which is hot in theory, but in practice? Kind of a mental health nightmare.”

I blink at her. “I’m not spiraling?”

“Hmm.” She takes another bite. “Tough to say. You did crawl for him.”

“Okay wow,” I shove her knee. “Don’t use that tone like you’re not the bitch who fell in love with a guy who couldn’t even spell ‘affection’ without autocorrect.”

“That was one time. And to be fair, he had great arms.”

“He was catfishing you from a prison phone, Sarah.”

She shrugs. “Again. Great arms.”

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my coffee. A beat of quiet falls over us, and I can feel her watching me. She looks at me like she can’t tell if I need comfort or chaos—and she’s fully prepared to deliver either. That’s what I love the most about her, she’s not my ride or die for nothing.

“So,” she says gently, “are you gonna tell Steven the truth?”

I shake my head, fingers curling tight around the mug. “I don’t know. I think part of me wants to, but if I say it out loud, it makes everything real.”

“You didn’t let anything happen,” she says, keeping her tone flat. “You survived.”

I look at her, and for once, I don’t make a joke. I just nod.

“Besides,” she adds after taking a sip of her drink, “if Steven is even half as obsessed with you as he seems, he’s probably already figured you out.”

We fall into silence again. She stretches her legs out across mine and sighs. “Okay, now can we talk about my problem?”

“Oh god. What happened now?”

“Some guy on Tinder messaged me five times yesterday and somehow found my booktok account.”

“Wait, what? No. No. We don’t bridge apps. That’s against the rules.”

“He sent me a Goodreads link to a book I reviewed in 2019 and said, ‘I bet you look good in glasses.’”

I make a strangled noise. “That’s not flirting. That’s a threat.”

“Right?? I don’t even wear glasses anymore.”

“So, what did you say?”

She smiles. “I sent him a picture of Pennywise holding a library card and said ‘same energy.’”

I wheeze. “I love you.”

“Obviously.”

I sink further into the couch, pulling the blanket over my lap. The sugar’s kicking in, and the coffee’s working. Thank God.

Even though everything is chaos—Steven, Frank, the truth I still haven’t said—right now, in this tiny apartment with my best friends, her disaster of a dating life and her candle-induced asthma attack waiting to happen…I feel almost human again.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, slicing through the moment.

It’s Frank. I don’t even bother opening it.

I can see the preview just fine. Another fake-sweet check-in, like he’s worried.

Probably followed by some vague apology that doesn't actually take responsibility, wrapped in charm and old memories and whatever script he thinks still works on me.

I delete it because I’m done pretending, done letting him talk in circles around my instincts, like I’m the one who’s crazy for hearing the alarm bells. Something’s wrong and it has been for a long time.

Last night, I chose Steven. Okay, let’s be honest. I think I chose him the first day in the library.

I let him touch me. I let him see me. And I fell asleep with his arms around me like I wasn’t still broken. Even if I don’t know what it means yet, it matters.

I set the phone back down, exhaling once, and press my fingers to my temples.

Steven said no more lies, and I meant it when I agreed. I need to end things with Frank, for real this time.

I haven’t even talked to Steven, not since last night, and that silence is starting to settle like a bruise. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I’m not going to spiral. I’ve done enough of that lately.

“Okay, you’re doing that thing again,” Sarah says, nudging my leg with her foot from the opposite end of the couch. “The one where your face goes full war-crime and I start wondering if I need to hide the knives.”

I blink over at her. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Right. That’s the problem.” She sets her coffee down, narrowing her eyes. “Did lover-boy disappear already? Or is he still lurking in the shadows, sharpening his cheekbones and planning your joint funeral?”

I snort, then shake my head. “Haven’t heard from him.”

Her expression softens. “And that’s…not normal?”

“I don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck. “I mean, it’s only been a few hours, and he’s not exactly a good-morning-text kind of guy, but something feels…off.”

“Off how? Like emotionally constipated and brooding, or ghosted-me-for-no-reason off?”

“Somewhere between both,” I mutter. “With a sprinkle of emotionally unavailable and weirdly intense eye contact.”

“Love that for you.” She sighs, leaning back against the cushions. “But also, he does look at you like you hung the moon. So maybe give it a minute before you go full Scorpio death spiral.”

“I’m an Aquarius.”

“Same difference. You just alphabetize the knives before you use them.”

I crack a smile—small, but real.

“Look,” she says, shifting so she’s facing me. “You don’t have to know what you want from him yet. Or from Frank. Or from yourself. You’re allowed to be in the middle of the mess.”

“Thanks, therapist Barbie.”

“Anytime, emotionally constipated Barbie.” She grins, then taps her phone. “Now if we’re done unpacking your man drama, there’s something I need to tell you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me this isn’t about the guy who offered to buy your feet pics and your air fryer.”

She snorts, nearly choking on her coffee. “Oh my god—no. That guy was unhinged. He wanted to sniff my air fryer. Immediately blocked.”

I laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “You attract the weirdest men. It’s honestly impressive.”

“Right?” She flops back dramatically against the couch, pulling her blanket up to her chin. “But no. This one’s…different.”

I narrow my eyes. “Different how? Like ‘not a felon’ different, or ‘has a working shower head’ different?”

Her face flushes, but she tries to play it off. I know that look. “You like him.”

“No,” she says too quickly. “I mean—yes. Kind of. Maybe. Shut up.”

I grin. “Give me details or I’m telling your mom you still don’t separate your lights and darks.”

“Rude. And I do now—mostly.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and sighs. “It’s nothing dramatic. He just…talks to me. Sends me memes. We joke about the dumbest shit. Yesterday he told me he’d die on the hill that shredded cheese tastes better than sliced, and honestly? I respect it.”

“You’re in love.”

“I might be,” she groans. “But don’t ruin it. He hasn’t asked for nudes or pitched a pyramid scheme yet, so I’m just trying to enjoy it while it lasts.”

I lean back into the couch cushions, warmth settling in my chest despite everything else.

“Keeping my fingers crossed."

“Me too,” she says softly. “Because if this one turns out to be another feet guy, I’m retiring from dating forever.”

I smile, looking out the window, where the sky is starting to shift. For a second, it almost feels like the world might give us both a break.

“This is why I need you in my life,” I murmur, nudging her knee with mine. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll find you. I love you that much.”

She grins. “If you didn’t chase me through the woods, you obviously don’t really love me.”

“Oh, I’ll chase you,” I say, deadly serious. “I’m not gonna fuck you, but I will throw a dildo at your fucking face, bitch.”

She snorts water out her nose and nearly chokes. “Jesus Christ, Ani.”

“You knew what this was when you signed up.”