Page 50 of His To Erase
His boots crunch against the gravel as he steps closer. “That explains a lot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’re kind of cute when you’re hostile.”
I stop walking.
“Cute?” My voice could slice through concrete. “You’re the one following me home.”
His head tilts slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that should not be legal.
“Is that what this is? Following?”
“You’re behind me, aren’t you?”
He steps forward. “Not anymore.”
My breath catches—traitor—but I don’t flinch. I keep my chin up, boots planted. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I mutter. “I’m just too tired to argue.”
He smirks, dragging his eyes over me like he already knows what color I taste like.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”
God, I want to slap him… and kiss him.
My stomach twists as we cross the street, and I realize I’m doing something stupid—memorizing the sound of his footsteps beside mine. The way his shoulder almost brushes mine. The heat rolling off him in waves. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, not the way his presence makes everything else feel muted. Like the world turns down when he gets close.
I hate it.
I slow my steps in front of a different building, like this is where I live. I’ll let him think it, because the last thing I want is him knowing which door is actually mine.
He doesn’t need to know which window stays lit too late. Which one creaks when you push it open. I don’t need him tracing my patterns. I don’t need anyone that close.
I stop at the stoop, shift my weight, and school the tension out of my shoulders like it’s something I can exhale.
“Well, this is me,” I say casually.
It’s not. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye—and he’s not looking at the door, he’s looking at me. Like he sees right through my lies.
Of course he fucking does.
“I’m good from here,” I mutter, turning just enough to throw him a look that’s more bark than bite. “Unless you plan on checking under the bed for monsters too.”
His brow arches. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found something hiding under a bed.”
My stomach twists. I can’t tell if it’s the threat buried in his tone—or the fact that I wouldn’t mind if he crawled in with me.
The image alone is dangerous.
Him. My bed. The things he’d do once he got there.
I blink hard, trying to shake it off. “Do you always make breaking and entering sound so sexy?”
It’s out before I have the chance to filter my thoughts.
His mouth curves, slow and lethal. “So you think I’m sexy?”
