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

Ellie's POV

The drive back to our apartment was silent, but my mind screamed. Every curve of the road felt like Gunner’s eyes on me. The journal’s words were burned onto my brain, a secret tattoo.

I walked into the apartment, the air stale with Mark’s quiet presence. He was in his usual spot, slumped in the armchair with a thick academic tome open on his lap. His glasses were perched low on his nose.

“You’re back late,” he said, not looking up.

“I… found something,” I started, my voice trembling. I dropped my bag and walked over, sitting on the edge of the sofa facing him. “At my brother’s house. A journal.”

Mark’s eyes flicked up from the page, a flicker of mild interest. “A journal? From your brother?”

“No.” I swallowed. “From Gunner.”

That got his attention. He closed the book, placing it aside with a slow, deliberate motion that felt like a judge settling into his bench. “Gunner? That biker? Why were you reading his journal?”

“It was in a box. I just opened it.” I felt childish explaining it. “It was… full of things. Fantasies. Explicit ones.”

Mark’s lips twisted into a faint, condescending smile. “Fantasies? About who?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but my voice betrayed me. It wavered. “Some of them… the settings… they felt familiar.

Like maybe…”

He leaned forward, his scholarly gaze sharpening. “Like maybe they were about you?” He laughed. A single, dry chuckle that cut through the room. “Ellie, come on. Gunner? That guy?”

“Yes,” I insisted, heat rising in my cheeks. “He was there today. He said things that… matched what was written.”

Mark shook his head, a patronizing gesture I’d never seen from him before. “Listen, Ellie. Gunner is a type.

He’s a player. He likes a certain type of girl. Big. Bold. Loud. Girls with… big everything. You’re…” He gestured at me vaguely. “You’re lovely. But you’re… normal. You’re a sweet, normal girl. He wouldn’t waste his fantasies on you. You’re not his fantasy type.”

The words landed like punches. Normal. Sweet. They felt like synonyms for plain. For unworthy.

“That’s not true,” I said, my voice rising. “You don’t know what he wrote. It was… intense. Specific.”

“Specific?” Mark’s smile turned colder. “Specific about you? Did he describe your hair? Your eyes? Your… body?” He said ‘body’ like it was a clinical term, not something that could be desired.

“Not directly, but—”

“Then it wasn’t about you.” He cut me off, finality in his tone. “You’re reading into it because he flirted with you a few times. It’s a classic ego trap. Don’t fall for it. Besides, your brother would never let him near you.

You’re a good girl. Gunner deals with other kinds.”

Good girl. The label my brother used. The cage I’d lived in. Now Mark was locking the door.

“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped, standing up. “You’re usually so understanding. You listen. Today you’re just… dismissing me. Mocking me.”

He looked at me, a strange weariness in his eyes. Then he sighed, his posture softening. “Ellie, I’m sorry. I’m just teasing you. Don’t be so serious.” He got up, walked over to me, and put his hands on my shoulders.

“You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

He leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, placating kiss, meant to soothe. But as he pulled away, my eyes dropped to his neck, to the open collar of his button-down shirt.

There, just above the collar line, was a mark. A small, purplish-red bruise. Perfectly round. Fresh.

I didn’t make that.

My heart stopped. The argument, the dismissal, the strange coldness—it all snapped into a terrible, clear picture.

I pulled back from his hands, my own going cold. “What’s that?” I asked, my voice quiet and flat.

His hand flew to his neck instinctively, covering the spot. His expression shifted from placating to panicked, then quickly to defensive. “What? Nothing. It’s just… a rash. From the heat.”

“It’s a hickey,” I said. The word felt foreign and ugly in my mouth. “A fresh one.”

“Ellie, don’t be ridiculous.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. “You’re imagining things. You’re stressed from the packing, from that journal nonsense.”

“I’m not imagining the bruise on your neck,” I said, stepping back. The distance between us felt vast suddenly, filled with betrayal. “Who was it?”

Mark’s face tightened. The scholarly calm shattered, replaced by a guilty, frustrated glare. “It’s not what you think. It was just a… a thing. A moment. It doesn’t matter.”

“A thing?” I repeated, my voice climbing. “A moment? With who? Someone at the library? Someone big and bold and loud? Someone more Gunner’s type than I am?”

His silence was confirmation. It screamed louder than any admission.

The journal’s heat, Gunner’s predatory smile, Mark’s dismissive cruelty—they collided in my gut, twisting into a sharp, sickening knot. My safe, stable boyfriend, the man who loved books and quiet nights, had a fresh mark from another woman’s mouth on his skin. And he had just told me I was too normal to be the subject of a dangerous man’s fantasies.

I looked at him—at his lean frame, his glasses, his shirt that hid the evidence of his hypocrisy—and I saw a stranger. A liar.

“You were with someone else,” I stated, the shock giving way to a cold, clear anger. “I simply can't fathom it. You're messing around with a woman! ”

“It wasn’t like that!” he protested, but the words were weak. “It was just… a flirtation. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It meant something to me,” I said, turning away from him. I walked to the window, looking out at the city lights that suddenly felt so empty. “It meant you think I’m ordinary. It meant you think I’m not worthy of a fantasy.”

I thought of Gunner’s words. I’d fuck her right here, on her brother’s porch, with the sun watching.

Raw. Specific. Unapologetic.

Mark’s touch felt like a lie. Gunner’s gaze felt like a truth I was terrified to admit.

“Ellie, please,” Mark said from behind me, his voice pleading now. “Let’s just forget this. It’s a stupid mark.

Your brother’s friend is a stupid journal. None of it matters. We’re good. We’re stable.”

Stable. The word sounded like a prison.