Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
-Thalia-
My breaths come out ragged and uneven, every inhale a painful reminder of my turmoil. I can’t look at him; the weight of my failure is too great. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to curl into myself, as if I could disappear into its warmth.
My voice barely escapes, small and trembling. “I ruined it.”
Xander is perched on the edge of the bed, neither too close nor too far, a calm presence amidst my storm. His voice breaks the silence, steady and reassuring, as he replies, “You didn’t ruin anything.”
My heart races, and the tears threaten to spill again.
“I panicked. I pushed you away. I—” My throat tightens painfully, choking back the words. “I can’t even handle you touching me without losing it. You deserve someone who isn’t this broken.”
The silence after I speak feels endless.
I can almost hear the words dissolving into the air between us, leaving behind a metallic taste I can’t swallow.
My chest aches from holding my breath, from waiting for rejection that never comes.
The lamp hums, the clock ticks, the world keeps moving, and I hate how still I am.
Guilt fills the stillness, thick and suffocating, a slow-moving tide that threatens to pull me under.
Sometimes guilt becomes its own religion.
A ritual.
An altar I drag myself to again and again, convinced I owe penance for simply existing.
I don’t think Xander understands how heavy it feels inside my chest. He sees panic. He sees pain. But he doesn’t see the part of me that genuinely believes I deserve the worst, that anything gentle is something I have to earn.
Damian conditioned me to believe that my discomfort wasn’t real unless he validated it. That my body was an object for someone else’s wants. Even now, months later, the rulebook he forced into my bones still tries to run the show.
Don’t say no.
Don’t inconvenience him.
Don’t feel anything.
Healing isn’t quiet.
Healing is screaming inside my skull, begging myself to believe that not everyone is like him.
Xander doesn’t ask me to be less in order to be loved.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I pull the blanket tighter, the fabric rasping against my skin, and think about every time I’ve tried to rebuild myself with shaking hands. Every failure echoes. The worst part isn’t the panic; it’s the guilt that follows, sticky and impossible to wash off.
Xander shifts, sliding closer until the warmth radiates from him to me, comforting and constant. He doesn’t reach for me just yet; he simply waits for me to turn toward him, a silent invitation that feels both safe and daunting. Xander lifts his hand slowly, giving me time to see it coming.
“Can I touch your arm?” he asks.
I nod.
His palm settles lightly against my forearm, warm and steady. “Can you name three things you can feel?”
My throat tightens around the answer.
“The blanket… The air on my skin… Your hand.”
“Good,” he says softly. “Now three sounds.”
I listen.
“The hum of the lamp. The clock. Your breathing.”
He smiles a little. “There you go. You’re here.”
It hits me—no one has ever tried to bring me back into my body… without taking it.
When our eyes meet, his gaze is unwavering, firm, and unshakable. “Listen to me, Thalia. You’re not broken. You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
Damian never asked what I wanted.
He didn’t need to.
He expected obedience, not participation.
Xander waits for permission like it’s sacred.
And for the first time, I realize that consent isn’t just about yes or no.
Consent is being asked at all.
I want to argue, to tell him healing doesn’t feel like this. Healing should be lighter, not this grinding ache that drags behind me. But his tone leaves no room for doubt, just warmth that seeps into the cracks. So, I stay silent and let his certainty hold me when I can’t hold myself.
The tears fall freely now, hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks like a dam that has finally given way.
My therapist once told me, “Your body keeps the score before your mind does.”
I didn’t understand it until now.
Xander’s touch doesn’t hurt.
But my body doesn’t know that yet.
It reacts to ghosts.
And I hate that I can’t logic my way out of trauma, can’t argue with my nervous system into cooperating. I want so badly to be normal. To just enjoy something without dissecting it.
But healing isn’t graceful.
Sometimes, it’s crawling.
“But what if I can never get past this? What if it’s always like this?” My voice cracks, despair fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. He gently takes my trembling hands, lacing our fingers together, grounding me with his touch.
“Then I’ll stay anyway,” he pledges, his voice a soothing balm. “Because being with you isn’t about what we can or can’t do in bed. It’s about you. About us. The rest… We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.” The lump in my throat swells painfully, almost unbearable.
Overwhelmed, I bury my face in his chest, sobbing into the warmth of him, into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that feels so reassuring.
His promise shouldn’t feel possible. Loyalty like that feels dangerous, like an edge I could bleed on.
But his tone is steady, patient. I wonder what it would feel like to stop waiting for people to leave.
To stop testing them with my worst moments and simply believe they’ll stay.
He wraps his arms around me, careful and deliberate, like every touch is an invitation, a whisper of permission rather than a demand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into my hair.
I flinch, not because of fear, but because I’m still learning how to accept words that don’t bruise on impact.
I want to believe him.
I really do.
But belief feels dangerous, like handing someone a weapon and hoping they won’t use it.
For what feels like an eternity, he simply holds me. There’s no rushing, no pushing, no whispers of disappointment. Just his unwavering presence, replete with love and understanding.
As my tears gradually subside, he leans down, his breath warm against my hair. “Tonight wasn’t a failure. It was information.”
Information. The word sticks, strange and clinical, but maybe that’s what I need, a way to label the chaos, to make it measurable. If I can name it, maybe I can control it. His patience feels like gravity pulling me back each time I drift into shame.
“We learned what doesn’t feel safe yet. That’s progress.”
Progress is terrifying; it means moving away from the familiar ache that’s kept me safe. I’m not sure I’m ready to live without the armor of fear. Yet when he looks at me, I almost want to try.
What if every time I try, I freeze?
What if my trauma keeps poisoning the best thing I’ve ever had?
Xander doesn’t know the nightmare reel that plays behind my eyelids, the memories that surface, uninvited and sharp.
I want to want him freely.
I just don’t know how.
Days drift by in a murky haze before we decide to try again.
Xander is a master of patience; he never brings it up, never hints at it, never pushes me to act before I’m ready.
It’s me who finally whispers the words into the quiet of the night, the weight of them heavy in the still air.
“Can we… try again?” My stomach twists. Not from dread, just sheer vulnerability.
Trying again isn’t about wanting sex.
It’s about wanting freedom.
Damian took something from me, carved out pieces I didn’t consent to lose. Trying again means taking one back.
The question barely leaves my lips, but it carries every sleepless night, every therapy session, every heartbeat that’s learned to stutter at the sound of love. I don’t ask because I’m ready. I ask because I’m tired of being ruled by the part of me that isn’t.
His breath catches for a moment, then he bends down, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to the crown of my head. “Only if you’re sure.”
I nod, the determination in my voice strengthened as I murmur, “I’m sure I want to try. That’s all I can promise.”
“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.
I bury my face in his chest, whispering against his warm skin, “That was better.”
Better isn’t the final destination.
Better is the first victory.
It’s proof that my body isn’t broken beyond repair, that it can learn new associations.
That maybe, someday, I won’t have to fight to stay present.
The words hang here like fragile glass. ‘Better.’ Such a small word, but it feels monumental.
His answering smile is soft, almost reverent, and something inside me loosens, a knot I didn’t realize I’d been living around.
My body hums with something unfamiliar, contentment instead of collapse.
The stillness feels earned, a reward rather than a void.
I never knew peace could be so loud inside my chest.
He dips his head to kiss my hair, his arms encircling me with an unyielding sense of security.
“It’ll keep getting better. One step at a time.”