Page 36 of Shattered Obsession

It didn’t sound weak when she said it—it sounded brave. Maybe surviving is its own kind of rebellion.

When I arrive back at the apartment, Xander’s already waiting for me. He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, following a familiar rhythm of cooking, a habit he falls back on whenever he feels anxious.

I drop my bag on the floor and lean against the counter. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” he replies, searching my face as if trying to decode the weight of my day. “How was Isla?”

“She’s good. We talked about everything, and we laughed. A lot.”

The tension in Xander’s shoulders relaxes, the tightness in his jaw easing as a smile breaks through his concern. “I like it when you laugh.”

“Me too,” I say, stepping into his embrace and breathing in his familiar scent. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t seem like I’m dragging all my ghosts into the room with me; it merely feels like coming home.

The rich aroma of garlic and buttery goodness fills the air as we sit cozily on the couch, plates balanced on our laps, the soft murmur of the TV providing a soothing background hum. I dive into recounting more stories about Isla, how she made me laugh until my stomach hurt, her playful teasing as she dragged me through every shop, pointing out the most ridiculous outfits we could never afford. Xander listens intently, a smile stretching across his face with each word I say, as though hearing me talk about joy brings him more pleasure than the food in front of him.

“I like her,” he declares.

“You’ve never even met her,” I counter with a laugh.

“Doesn’t matter. If she makes you feel lighter, then I like her.”

At that, my chest warms unexpectedly, a swell of gratitude and affection filling the space between us. After dinner, we clean up together, a well-worn routine of cooperative chores—he washes, I dry. Our movements synchronize like a dance, both of us instinctively falling into a comfortable rhythm. There’s a mundane, ordinary intimacy in this small act, and when the last dish is put away, I lean against the counter, taking in the sight of him.

His hair is still damp and tousled from the steam, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms. The way he looks at me sends a jolt through the air—not tense, not heavy, just charged, like the calm before a storm.

He steps closer, his fingertips brushing lightly against my cheek as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Still okay?” he asks, concern flickering in his gaze.

“Yes,” I whisper, the word a soft affirmation.

His kiss is tender and unhurried, a gentle exploration that feels full of unspoken hope. We transition from the kitchen to the couch, then finally to the bedroom, each movement deliberate and measured, as if we are both acutely aware of every step we take toward intimacy. By the time we’re lying together, the lamp casts a warm glow that wraps around us, and while my heart pounds in my chest, it doesn’t evoke panic.

Nerves, yes, but also a deep, lingering desire.

Xander’s voice is a soothing whisper in the peace of the room. “Tell me what feels safe tonight. We don’t have to go any further than that.”

I take a shaky breath, the sheets cool against my skin as my fingers curl into the fabric. “Just… touching. Kissing. Maybe more if it feels okay.” His understanding nod reassures me, his eyes never leaving mine, always seeking confirmation.

“We’ll go one step at a time,” he promises, and I believe him. The vulnerability doesn’t scare me this time. It feels earned, like standing barefoot on solid ground after years of ice. I let the stillness stretch until my breath syncs with his.

Xander’s gaze remains locked onto mine as he leans in, kissing me slowly, deliberately, each brush of his lips a gentle question. My body trembles, not from fear—at least, not solely from fear—but from the deep, pulsating want that courses through me.

His hand glides along my arm, settling on my waist, and he pauses when he senses me stiffen. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe, my voice steady yet barely above a whisper.

He keeps his touch feather-light, never forcing the pace, always allowing me to lead. When his fingers slip beneath the hem of my shirt, I give a small nod. Gradually, he lifts the fabric, inch by inch, revealing my vulnerable skin, and I feel a rush of excitement that quickens my heartbeat.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and for once, I do not flinch away from the compliment.

His lips trace gentle paths along my collarbone, slow and careful. I close my eyes, focusing on my breath as I remind myself to inhale for four and exhale for six, just like we practiced. The simmering panic hovers at the edges of my awareness, but it doesn’t take control. Not tonight. His fingers draw constellations on my shoulder blade, each touch mapping out a new sky. My pulse follows his rhythm, slow and certain.

When he shifts his weight above me, he balances carefully on his elbows, his body close but never too much, a reminder that I have the power to move if I need to. That knowledge soothes me, letting my breathing even out.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice low and steady, a grounding presence in the moment.

“No,” I reply, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. “I want… more.”

His gaze searches mine, a silent confirmation of my desire, always seeking my assurance. Then, he leans in again, his mouth capturing mine once more, deeper this time, and I feel the ghosts that normally haunt me retreat just a little further into the shadows.