Page 18 of His To Erase
I exhale through my nose and reach for the cart, mostly so I don’t say something stupid like wanna elaborate, Socrates?
“Come on,” I mutter, turning. “I’ll show you.”
I lead him through the aisles, trying to focus on my steps and not the ridiculous awareness prickling along my spine like he’s following too close.
He isn’t. I checked.
But his presence is too much. Too intense for a room that’s usually filled with nothing but whispers and the occasional rustle of pages.
I stop at the end of the row and gesture to the shelf.
“Here. All the wisdom of the ages at your disposal.”
He steps forward, hands in his pockets like he’s not a threat at all. Which is exactly what makes him one as he scans the titles—sharp and unhurried, like he’s committing them to memory instead of actually reading.
He nods once. “Thanks.”
Just lethal calm dressed up as casual interest.
I exhale, like maybe I’ve been holding my breath this whole damn time, and push the cart forward without looking back. Whatever that was, I’m not unpacking it. Not today.
I finish the rest of my shift like nothing happened.
Or at least, I try to.
Because an hour later, he’s still here—tucked into one of the deep leather chairs by the windows like he’s a regular or something.
He’s got a book in hand, with his legs stretched out, and his posture is casual in the way that screams deliberate. Like someone who wants to look relaxed.
There’s a sharpness to him.
A coiled stillness.
I tell myself I don’t care. I repeat it like a chant. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll believe it.
It’s none of my business if some heavily tattooed, vaguely divine-looking stranger decides to spend his afternoon pretending to read a book he hasn’t looked at since I showed him the damn shelf.
It’s not weird.
Not weird that he hasn’t turned a page or moved in an hour.
Definitely not my problem.
And yet—when I push the empty cart back toward the front desk and pass by his chair again, I look. And there he is. Same chair. Same book. Same unreadable expression.
His posture is all bored disinterest—but his eyes are moving. Too slow to be skimming, but too fast to be reading.
I frown.
Now I know what I’m looking for. He’s not reading at all, he’s waiting. But I have no idea who he’s waiting for, or what.
Something about him doesn’t add up. There’s no way he’s actually here for the philosophy section. Hell, he’s probably not here for the books at all.
Again, not my problem.
I force my gaze forward and shove down whatever weird, crawling instinct is trying to claw its way up the back of my spine like a warning.
He’s just some guy with tattoos and too much presence. He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.
