Page 32 of His To Erase
So instead, I get up, shoving off the covers, and let muscle memory do the rest.
Lately, my newest obsession is the gym. It started as a distraction, a way to stay out of my head whenever I couldn’t go back to sleep. Now, it’s more than that. It’s control.
But control never lasts long.
By the time I’m starting my shift at the library, my mood is already sliding.
Too little sleep. Too much caffeine. And far too many ghosts pressing in behind my eyes.
I shelve another book harder than necessary, while silently apologizing to it.
I don’t even hear him approach.
"You for sure always look like you’re plotting something when you’re in here."
His voice cuts through the quiet like smoke curling under a locked door—soft, amused, and dangerous in all the ways I wish I didn’t recognize.
I go still while my fingers pause mid-reach, curled around the spine of a book. My pulse trips, but I don’t look. Not yet.
Not him.
Not now, when I can barely breathe through the anxiety coiled in my chest like barbed wire. I exhale through my nose, like maybe that’ll keep the emotion out of my face.
Tattoo Man.
Library Guy.
Bar Guy.
The man who cracked my ribcage open with a look and hasn’t stopped pulling pieces of me out since.
He’s leaning against the end of the aisle like the shelves were built to hold his weight. All calm menace and unbothered dominance, like he could ruin me without even raising his voice.
His long sleeves are pushed to the elbow, showing off those gloriously flexed forearms. His ink is peeking out like it’s taunting me—just enough to make my brain short-circuit, but not enough to be useful.
And the worst part is, he looks completely unbothered. Like he didn’t just light my whole body on fire by breathing in my vicinity.
Heat crawls up my spine, unwelcome and immediate. And yeah—I hate that I notice how the fabric clings to him. How he looks like he was carved from something dangerous.
And fuck me, I want him to touch me with those hands I’ve shamelessly fantasized about more than once.
His hands stay shoved in his pockets like he’s not a threat at all—while those dark eyes drag over me in slow, clinical passes like he’s tracking every breath, and every tick in my pulse I didn’t give him permission to notice.
I arch a brow, because if he’s expecting a warm welcome, he’s about to get lit on fire instead. I’m not in the fucking mood.
"Maybe I am plotting something. You should be worried."
His lips twitch slightly, like I confirmed whatever he came here already believing.
“Should I?”
His voice is pure arrogance.
I turn back to the shelf and shove a book into place with more force than any book should have to be put through.
“That depends. You planning on pissing me off?”
He hums, stepping closer. His presence wraps around me, consuming me, like heat and danger and something I shouldn’t want but definitely do.
