I Wasn't Supposed to Find My Brother's Best Friend's Filthy Journal

Ellie's POV

“A librarian,” Mark said, the word hanging in the air like a rotten fruit. He wouldn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on the carpet, the pattern of which he suddenly seemed to find fascinating. “She works at the university library. Carol. She’s… older.”

The details spilled out in a flat, monotone confession, like he was reading a boring footnote. Married. Ten years older than him. It had been happening for months. A “flirtation” that escalated in the back stacks, among the dust and silence of forgotten philosophy texts. He described her as “sharp,” “alluring,” “mature.”

His clinical terms painted a picture of a woman who knew what she wanted, a woman who wasn’t “sweet” or

“normal.”

Each word was a nail hammered into my heart.

I stood there, listening, my body turning cold. The heat from Gunner’s journal, the electric charge of his words, evaporated. All that remained was this icy, crawling disgust. My boyfriend—my safe, stable, bookish boyfriend—had been sneaking around with a married librarian in her late thirties. While I packed boxes.

While I worried about my brother’s warnings. While I wrestled with the shameful thrill of a biker’s dirty fantasies.

“You’re… disgusting,” I whispered. The anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sick feeling. “You lied to me.

You made me feel small, and you were doing this.”

“Ellie, it wasn’t about you,” he pleaded, finally looking up. His eyes were desperate. “It was just… excitement.

Something different. It didn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“Love me?” The laugh that came out of me was brittle and broken. “You don’t even see me. You see a ‘good girl’ you can keep in a box while you go out and play with someone ‘alluring.’” I grabbed my bag from the floor, the one with Gunner’s journal still inside. It felt heavy, a tangible secret against my hip. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Where will you go?” He stood up, reaching for me.

I dodged his hand. “Anywhere that isn’t here with you.”

I turned and walked out of the apartment, not looking back. The door clicked shut behind me, a final, soft sound that felt louder than any scream. The hallway was empty. The elevator took forever. My mind was a blank, white noise.

I stepped out into the cool evening air of the city street. I didn’t have a plan. I just walked, my feet carrying me away from the building, from Mark, from the life that had suddenly cracked open and shown its ugly, rotten core. The bag strap dug into my shoulder. Gunner’s journal. The proof that someone, a dangerous someone, had looked at me and seen something worth fantasizing about in raw, explicit detail. It was a twisted comfort now.

The sound of footsteps behind me broke through my numbness. Running footsteps.

“Ellie! Stop!”

Mark’s voice. He’d followed me.

I didn’t stop. I walked faster, my heart pounding a new, frantic rhythm. He caught up to me on the sidewalk a block away, grabbing my arm.

“Let go of me,” I snarled, trying to wrench free.

“You can’t just run off! We need to talk about this!” His grip was tight, his face flushed with a mix of guilt and frustration.

“We talked,” I spat. “You told me you fucked a married woman in the library. We’re done talking.” I yanked my arm again, and this time, I broke free. I stumbled backward a step.

A deep, guttural engine roar cut through the argument.

It came from the end of the street. A motorcycle, black and sleek, rolled into view. The rider was a silhouette against the streetlights, but the build, the posture—I knew instantly.

Gunner.

He slowed the bike as he approached us, the engine purring now, a low, predatory sound. He stopped a few feet away, kicking the stand down. He didn’t get off. He just sat there, one hand on the throttle, his eyes— those sharp, assessing blue eyes—locked on the scene: me, tears probably streaking my face, my bag clutched like a shield; Mark, red-faced and reaching for me again.

“Looks like you’re having a party,” Gunner said, his voice a lazy drawl that carried over the engine’s rumble.

Mark glared at him. “This is private. Leave.”

Gunner’s smile was slow and cold. “I’m just passing through. But it seems like the lady might want a different escort.” His gaze shifted to me. “Ellie. You look like you need a ride.”

The offer hung there. A ride. On his bike. Away from here.

Mark stepped forward, his scholarly frame suddenly trying to look imposing. “She’s not going anywhere with you. She’s my girlfriend. We’re having a discussion.”

“Discussion?” Gunner chuckled, a dark sound. “Seems more like a chase.” He finally swung off the bike, his movements fluid and powerful. He stood, taller and broader than Mark, a solid wall of muscle and intent.

“She’s running. You’re grabbing. That’s not a discussion.”

“It’s none of your business,” Mark snapped, his voice rising.

“It became my business when I saw you manhandling her,” Gunner said, his tone dropping, losing all its lazy humor. It was pure, focused threat now.

He took a step toward Mark.

Mark, foolishly, stood his ground. “You stay away from her, Gunner. I know about you. I know what you do.

You’re a player. You’re trash.”

Gunner didn’t reply. He just moved.

It was fast. A blur of motion. Gunner’s fist connected with Mark’s jaw with a crack that was more sound than

I’d ever heard in my life. Mark’s head snapped back. He stumbled, his glasses flying off, skittering across the pavement. He hit the ground, hard, on his ass, a stunned, pained groan escaping him.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “Gunner, stop!”

Gunner stood over Mark, his fist still clenched. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “He was grabbing you.”

“I…” I couldn’t form a sentence. The violence was shocking, brutal, but it was also… protective. It was a line drawn. Mark on one side, Gunner on the other. And I was standing in the middle, holding the bag that contained Gunner’s most private thoughts.

Mark clutched his jaw, staring up at Gunner with a mixture of pain and fury. He scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly. “You… you fucking animal!” he shouted, his voice slurred. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “You want her? Is that it? You think you can just take her?”

Gunner didn’t move. He just watched Mark, a predator waiting for the next stupid move.

Mark’s anger, fueled by humiliation and the physical shock of the punch, found a new target. He turned his furious eyes on me, then back to Gunner. “You write about her, don’t you? In that sick journal she found?

You have… fantasies about her?”

The question, thrown out into the night air, was a grenade.

My breath stopped. The world narrowed to the space between the three of us. The journal in my bag felt like it was glowing, burning through the fabric.

Gunner’s eyes flicked to me, just for a second. A silent question. Did you read it?

Then he looked back at Mark, his face hardening into a mask of pure, unapologetic defiance. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t soften the words. He didn’t try to hide it.

“Yeah,” he said, the word simple, blunt, and loaded with meaning. “I do. What’s it to you?”

The confession landed with the weight of a physical blow.

Mark stared, his mouth open in shock. Then a bitter, ugly laugh burst out of him. “You see? Ellie, you see?

He’s a fucking pervert! He writes nasty shit about you in a book! And you’re standing here, letting him punch me?”

But I wasn’t listening to Mark anymore.

I was looking at Gunner.

His admission wasn’t a sly hint. It wasn’t a teasing provocation like in the garage. It was a direct, open statement. Yeah. I do. He owned it. He stood there, having just knocked my boyfriend to the ground, and admitted to fantasizing about me.

The journal’s words weren’t just fantasies. They were his fantasies. About me. And he’d just declared it, publicly, violently, without a shred of shame.

The sexual tension from before, the dangerous electricity, returned in a wave, but now it was mixed with this new, brutal reality. He’d fought for me. He’d claimed his desire for me. In the middle of a street, with my cheating boyfriend bleeding on the pavement.

I felt dizzy. The world tilted.

Mark saw my expression, the shock that wasn’t directed at Gunner’s violence, but at his honesty. “You’re… you’re considering him?” Mark’s voice was a disbelieving screech. “After what he just did? After what he just said?”

Gunner watched me, waiting. His blue eyes held mine, and in them, I saw no apology. No regret. Only a fierce, possessive certainty.

And I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, the bag with his dirty journal heavy in my hand, staring at the man who had just changed everything with a punch and a single, devastating word.