Page 15 of His To Erase
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 notat 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—exactlyhow 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.
