Page 176 of His To Erase
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m not starting—I’m basking. Text me when you can sit without wincing. Love you, slut.”
She hangs up before I can fire back. I lower the phone and just… stare at it. Like it might tell me something I’m too much of a coward to ask. My body’s wrecked, my mind’s fried, and my heart’s somewhere under the floorboards trying not to be dramatic about it. I slept in his house, again. I let him break me open, and now I’m letting myself want something dangerous.
I don’t know what I was expecting? Breakfast in bed and an apology for emotionally manhandling me into orgasmic submission?
God. I hate this. I hate that I feel everything and want more at the same time.
I shove the blanket back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels hollow, like the aftermath of a storm and somehow, that makes it worse.
I know he’s out there, somewhere in this house doing God knows what. I sit there for another second, trying to convince myself I’m not hoping to hear his voice or footsteps or anything that would tell me I didn’t imagine the way he touched me last night. The way he looked at me like I was his to ruin—and he was already halfway done.
I drag myself out of bed, tugging his hoodie over my head while I pad barefoot down the hall.
“Bern?” I call. But I don’t hear anything. I check the kitchen, the office, even the goddamn laundry room. I even peek into the bathroom like an idiot, like maybe he’s just shaving in there, quiet as a ghost.
He’s not.
There’s no coffee mug on the counter to even indicate he was up this morning. My stomach tightens, and something about this doesn’t feel right. I open the back door, squinting at the woods as the cold morning air rushes in. Still no sign of him or Bern. Just trees and silence and that low hum in my chest that always shows up when something’s about to go wrong.
Well, okay. Fine. If he wants to vanish without a word and go dark without so much as a be right back—cool. I’ve been ghosted by better men than him, though I can’t say I’ve been left in their house before. I should probably go home, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back until I’ve had the locks changed, and the landlord still hasn’t confirmed it’s been done.
So, I make coffee that tastes like regret, take a bath that scalds the ache out of my muscles, and eat one of those prepped meals. Bern shows up at some point, and I even throw a ball for her, and we go on a walk in silence.
It’s peaceful.
I keep telling myself I should enjoy it, that I should be grateful for the stillness. But even as I think it, I’m already reaching for my phone.
Didn’t I block this shit? I open it anyway, heart thudding, dread pooling in my throat like something alive.
UNKNOWN: Running only works if no one’s chasing. You think you’re hiding. But you keep leaving crumbs.
There’s no photo this time, but it still punches the air out of my lungs. I block the number again. Throwing the phone on the couch like it burned me, only to hear the buzz of another text.
Frank: Just wanted to say I miss you. Hope you’re doing okay. I’ll always make space for you, doll. Even if you’re not ready yet.
Goddamnit.
Of course he’s being sweet now. Soft, even. I don’t know how he does this, but it works every time. I should ignore it—especially after everything. Especially after what I did.
I’ve been dodging Frank’s advances for months, sidestepping every touch, brushing off every compliment, even pretending I wasn’t leading him on. Telling him I just wasn’t interested in dating anyone.
And yet here I am. Letting Steven crawl under my skin like he was always meant to be there. I don’t even know what the fuck we are. Enemies? Addicts? Two feral things orbiting the same wound? Certainly not dating.
And what’s worse is—I don’t know what that makes me.
I stare at Frank’s message for way too long before I finally start typing a reply.
ME: Guess the universe knew I needed a breather. Hope everything’s good on your end.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, then distract myself with Zillow. Again.
Scrolling through places I can’t afford, chasing something—anything—that doesn’t feel like it might cave in under the weight of my secrets.
I’ve been scrolling for what feels like hours, and I finally find something that just might work. It’s a tiny studio on the outskirts of town, and it’s available immediately. I text the number, asking to see it, and of course—it’s open tomorrow at noon.
It feels like a plan. A win.
