Page 33 of Shattered Obsession

“Then that’s enough,” he replies simply. I think about the way he held my hand at the mall the first time we met—gentle, like he was afraid I’d break.

Before Xander, I thought love was intensity.

Now I know intensity and cruelty can look identical in the dark.

Xander isn’t intense.

He’s intentional.

And that’s infinitely more reassuring.

My pulse drums beneath my skin, betraying nerves that border on terror. I stare at the ceiling, counting the slow turns of the fan until the sound becomes a lullaby.

Maybe safety doesn’t roar; it whispers.

The air feels charged, humming with the weight of everything unspoken. His calm steadiness becomes a metronome against my panic, the rhythm I breathe by. I realize healing might sound like this—quiet, patient, rhythmic.

This time, everything unfolds more slowly, carefully, in a tenderness that envelops us. We start with nothing but soft kisses, our clothes still in place, the dim light of the lamp casting gentle shadows across the walls. He narrates every touch as if reading a guidebook, asking with his hands and confirming with his enraptured eyes. When he hovers over me, his weight balanced on his elbows, it feels surreal. He never pushes down, never rushes me. His voice anchors me.

“Breath check,” he murmurs.

I inhale slowly.

Exhale.

Again.

Xander makes breathing a shared activity, as if my safety is part of the intimacy.

Damian never cared whether I could breathe.

Panic flickers at the edges of my mind, causing my breath to stutter.

My ribs tighten.

My throat closes.

The room blurs around the edges, and the past presses in, heavy, uninvited.

Xander pulls back instantly.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

And I do.

The panic recedes.

He senses it immediately, the tension radiating from me like a warning bell. “Do you want me to move?” he asks softly, his voice as soothing as silk. I swallow hard, fighting the wave of anxiety.

“No. Just… give me a second.” The air thickens. I focus on the smell of his skin, the faint trace of soap, the hum of the lamp. Every detail anchors me until my heartbeat stops clawing at my ribs. One breath, then another. Survive this minute; the next will take care of itself.

He nods, a picture of tranquility, brushing his thumb across my temple in comforting strokes. The space he gives me feels like an influx of oxygen, pushing back the panic that threatens to overtake me.

“I’m okay,” I finally whisper, and even saying it feels like a small victory.

We continue to explore one another’s touch gently, just as my therapist suggested. Skin against skin, with no rush and no goal beyond staying present in the moment. The ghosts of my past linger at the edges of every caress, whispers of doubt and fear, but they don’t win tonight.

When we finally cease our exploration, tangled together in a serene embrace, I tremble once more. Yet this time, it’s not solely born of fear; it’s a giddy mixture of vulnerability and relief.