Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
-Thalia-
The door clicks shut behind me, a resonant sound that echoes in the stillness outside.
The air hits my skin like a sudden jolt, crisp and biting, and I momentarily flinch at its intensity.
I feel as if I’ve just completed a marathon, my body heavy, weighed down by an exhaustion that seeps into my bones.
Xander stands a few feet away, and the instant he sees me, he rises as if pulled by an invisible string.
His eyes search mine, a gentle yet steady intensity that offers an unspoken promise.
My body feels hollowed out, scraped clean by confession.
I didn’t realize truth could leave bruises too.
“Hey,” he says, the single word imbued with warmth and concern.
I try to respond, but my voice feels trapped, so I simply nod.
I reach out, slipping my fingers into his.
There’s no need for words; his presence alone comforts me as he guides me to the car, opening the door with a familiar gesture that provides a strange sense of normalcy amidst the chaos swirling inside me.
The drive is enveloped in silence at first, punctuated only by the faint hum of the engine and the rush of passing scenery through the window. Finally, I manage to whisper, “I told her.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly, but his voice remains soothing, a lifeline in the turbulent waters of my mind. “About what happened?”
I nod again, my gaze drawn to the blurred images outside.
“I broke down. It all just… came out.” Saying it aloud again doesn’t trigger panic this time.
It just leaves a quiet ache, the dull throb of something beginning to heal.
I expect him to tense, to flinch away from the weight I placed in his hands.
Instead, his thumb strokes the back of my hand in slow, steady arcs.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone now,” he says quietly.
My chest loosens, just a fraction.
I didn’t know a person could feel like safety.
The warmth of his palm seeps into my fingers, spreading like sunrise through frostbitten skin.
I didn’t realize how cold I’d become until now.
The quiet between us feels sacred, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.
He doesn’t offer clichés or promises he can’t keep; he just breathes beside me, a living reminder that I’m not trapped in the past anymore.
Safety isn’t silence; it’s this heartbeat beside mine.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. The lump in my throat swells at his words, but this time, it’s not just grief—it’s a rush of relief and a budding sense of hope.
Back at my apartment, we sink onto the couch, the soft fabric pressing against my back, grounding me further.
My fingers still clutch his, as if holding onto him might keep me tethered to reality.
“She gave me some techniques,” I say slowly, carefully forming each word as they spill out.
“Things to remind myself I’m here, not there.
Breathing, grounding, that kind of stuff. ”
Xander nods attentively, his focus entirely on me. “Okay, we can practice those. Whatever you need.” I nod, unable to meet his eyes. Gratitude sits heavy in my chest, mingled with guilt, because needing someone still feels like weakness.
I sink deeper into the cushions, letting the fabric swallow me whole. Xander’s knee presses gently against mine. Not demanding anything. Not expecting anything.
It feels foreign.
Safety always does when you aren’t used to it.
I take a deep breath, my face flushing as I continue.
“And we talked about...” The words feel heavy on my tongue, but I push through.
“Intimacy. How my body panics even when my head knows I’m safe.
She said it’s normal. That it’s not about you doing something wrong.
It’s my nervous system still stuck in survival mode. ”
“I hate that he left you with that.”
“Me too,” I reply, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. “But she said we can rebuild. Slowly. Starting with small things. Just… being close, practicing touch, no pressure. She called it ‘sensate focus’.”
Xander’s eyes are unwavering, a sea of calm amidst my emotional storm. “So, we’ll do that. No pressure, no timeline. Just whatever makes you feel safe.”
We don’t talk much after that. We stretch across opposite ends of the couch, feet brushing occasionally.
Every time our skin touches, my chest tugs. Not with fear.
With possibility.
Tears spring to my eyes, hot and sudden, and he pulls me against his chest, his chin resting gently on my hair. “What if it takes forever?” I ask, my voice muffled against him.
“Then forever’s what we’ll do,” he replies softly. For the first time, the thought of forever doesn’t terrify me. It feels like a promise, an unspoken commitment to lean on as we navigate this new terrain together.
We begin our journey slowly with small, deliberate steps. Xander never pushes me beyond what I can handle. One night, we find ourselves nestled on the couch, the flickering glow of the television casting soft shadows around us. The atmosphere is cozy, a cocoon of comfort.
“Want to try one of the things your therapist suggested?” he asks, his voice smooth and gentle, as if afraid to shatter the calm. My pulse quickens at the suggestion, but I nod, willing to push through my discomfort.
Xander shifts to face me, our knees brushing. He takes my hand, his warmth radiating through our connected fingers. “Okay. Breathing first. In for four; out for six. I’ll go with you.”
Initially, my lungs resist, each inhale too shallow, each exhale shaky and fraught with tension.
But Xander’s presence steadies me. His deep inhalations and the soft timbre of his voice counting rhythmically under his breath start to pull me in.
Slowly, I begin to find my breath syncing with his, the rhythm becoming a reassuring mantra.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. I focus on the cadence of his breath. In. Out.
His breathing becomes a metronome I tune myself to.
Slowly, the tension drains from my muscles, and I realize I’m not holding my breath anymore.
“You’re safe. Right here with me.” His words seem to find their way into the very depths of my being, settling somewhere profound and calming, like a quiet anchor holding me steady against the turbulent winds of distress.
On another night, Xander surprises me by pulling a small box from the freezer, its purpose mysterious.
With a careful flourish, he retrieves an ice cube, pressing it gently into my palm.
The sudden shock of cold against my skin makes me gasp, the icy bite sending a jolt of awareness coursing through me.
“That’s grounding,” he explains softly. “It’s a reminder.
You’re here, in this moment. Nothing else. ”
The cold sensation works its magic. The tight grip of panic in my chest ebbs away, replaced by the sharp reality of the ice and the steady warmth of his hand enveloping mine.
The most challenging part is still the touch. One evening, we transition to the bedroom, our clothes still keeping the boundary of safety intact, the lamp dimmed to a gentle glow. My heart races as he runs his fingers down my arm—slow, deliberate, with nothing hidden in his touch.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my heart fluttering in my chest. His touch is feather-light, pausing carefully at my wrist.
“Still okay?” he checks, his eyes never leaving mine.
I nod, my breath shaky but filled with an undercurrent of trust. He continues to explore, his fingers mapping my body like an intricate landscape—shoulders, back, legs—each movement intentional and filled with meaning.
With every pause, every glance, I feel a deepening connection, and for the first time in a long time, my body doesn’t feel like a foreign entity. It feels like mine.
By the time he pulls me against his chest, the tension in my muscles softens, unraveling like a tightly wound spring. The world narrows to warmth, heartbeat, and breath. I memorize it the way survivors memorize exits, because this, too, feels like safety worth remembering.
I exhale a long, shaky breath and whisper, “Thank you.”
His response is immediate, a gentle kiss pressed to the top of my head. “Always,” he murmurs, and in this moment, everything feels possible. I close my eyes and let the word settle somewhere deep.
No one has ever stayed before.
Not like this.
My heart beats in my chest like a war drum, drowning out any other noise.
We’ve circled this moment for days, perhaps weeks, marked by every brush of Xander’s hand against mine, every kiss that ventured deeper before fear pulled us back.
But tonight feels different—there’s no urgency, no obligation. Just a resonating sense of readiness.
“Thalia.” He sits on the edge of the bed, his presence a comforting weight, his eyes fixed on me with an unwavering intensity. “We don’t have to do anything. Not tonight. And definitely not ever. Not unless you want to.”
“I do,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath, though the admission tightens my chest like a vice. “I want to try.”
He gives a slow, deliberate nod, as if sealing a pact between us. “Then we’ll try. But remember, you’re the one in charge. You say stop, and we stop. You say no, and we’re done.”
I nod, my throat dry but resolute. When he leans in to kiss me, it’s a soft caress, so gentle it feels almost painful.
The tenderness of the moment wraps around me like a warm blanket, overwhelming in its kindness.
His lips glide against mine with a patience that suggests he believes we have an eternity to explore this connection. And perhaps we do.
His hands begin to trace my arms, his touch feather-light, pausing every so often as if to check in with me.
“Still okay?”