Page 146 of His To Erase
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 lookdown 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?”
