Page 294 of His To Erase
The man multitasks. Aggressively. And he always looks so fucking hot doing it. I want to unzip his skin and climb inside just so he takes me everywhere with him.
I can’t complain—because whatever he’s doing usually dictates what kind of mood he’s in when he gets home. Which is exactly how last night happened.
I’m just about to get up and pour coffee when the knock comes. I freeze mid-stretch, and Bern lets out one warning bark from the end of the bed, likehow dare the world interrupt our soft era.Ronald loses his shit on instinct—barking like a gremlin, feet scrambling against the comforter as he tries to figure out what we’re mad about.
I pad barefoot to the door, tugging Steven’s hoodie tighter around me—the black one with the bleach stain from last night when I impulsively bleached a chunk of my hair. Honestly, it’s mine now. He just doesn’t know it yet..
When I open the door, I freeze.What the fuck?
So many fucking boxes cover the porch and they’re all addressed to me.
I bend down to grab the first one, and it’s heavier than I expected. Now I’m mildly concerned I just picked up a bomb—but I don’t stop. Curiosity outweighs whatever rational responseI should probably be having, like calling Steven. Or, you know, just leaving them there.
So I start opening them, one by one, bracing for chaos. But nope—every damn box is full of books.
They’re all first editions. Some are collector’s copies that probably cost more than my old rent. A few I’ve loved since I was a kid, and some others I’ve never even heard of, but I can already tell I’m going to lose sleep over them.
It takes me a minute longer than it should to realize what I’m actually looking at.
And when it hits me, I’m already crying. These aren’t just random books. They’re all from my wishlist. Every single one.
Each box has a number written on the lid—1 through 27. And tucked just inside each one is a folded piece of parchment paper.
I open the first one, and it’s blank. Second one? Also blank. Third—same. My hands are shaking, and my heart’s doing something weird and traitorous in my chest, but I can’t stop.Am I missing part of the joke?
And when I get to Box 11, it says,“Until the very end.”I read it out loud and instantly regret it, because now I’m crying again.
Box 15 says:“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love.”
And Box 20—“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times…”
I whisper the rest without needing the paper. “…if one only remembers to turn on the light.”
By then, I’m on the floor. Completely wrecked. Books everywhere, heart in pieces. He’s probably smiling somewhere like the smug bastard he is, knowing I’d cry over this. And I’ve never loved him more than I do in this moment.
All the boxes are open, and I have my tears mostly under control—when I spot a smaller box I must’ve missed. The label says 9¾, and I swear I actually laugh through a sob.
I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before I can see enough to open it. Inside is a single book, with the quote taped to the top.
It’s not Hogwarts, but it’s yours.
You collect stories. I collect you.
So I built a place to keep both.
I turn and head straight for the bedroom to grab my phone, pulse picking up with every step. I’m already reaching for the nightstand—ready to call him—when my eyes catch on the card. I freeze for half a second. It’s written in that same vicious scrawl I’ve grown to crave like oxygen.
Back hallway.
Third door.
Try not to scream, you’ll scare Ronald and he’ll pee again.
My brows lift, but my thighs press together instinctively. Some feral part of me hopes he’s waiting. I can feel myself getting wetter with every step, as I move down the hall. Past the guest room. Past his office. To the third door.
I open it—and forget how to breathe. It’s not a guest room anymore, it’s a library.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves wrap around the walls, already filled with books. There’s a skylight above, and warm sunlight spills in like some kind of staged fantasy. But it’s the ladder that gets me.
