Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
-Thalia-
The morning unfurls with a deceptive gentleness that wraps around me like a warm blanket.
Sunlight streams through the blinds, casting thin golden stripes across the bed and illuminating Xander’s skin, giving him an almost ethereal glow.
He’s still lost in slumber, one arm thrown across my waist as if, even in his dreams, he fears I might slip away into the morning light.
I used to think safety was a locked door, a deadbolt, a weapon within reach.
But safety looks different now. It looks like morning light softening the hard corners of his jaw.
It sounds like the soft exhale he makes when he dreams.
Damian hovered, possessed, and consumed.
Xander rests, stays, and chooses.
His fingers twitch in his sleep, gripping me unconsciously. I press a soft kiss to his chest, and instead of flinching like I used to, I melt. The past may have written my life, but Xander rewrites the ending every time he whispers my name.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm beneath me, a calming beat that I subconsciously synchronize my own breaths with as I find solace in its predictability.
The familiar panic that so often clawed at the edges of my mind has retreated.
There are no phantom shadows haunting me, no echoes of Damian’s torment, because for this moment, there is only warm stillness.
I begin to trace delicate shapes along Xander’s arm, gentle circles and whimsical lines, each movement a silent affirmation of his presence, a reminder that he is real, and this serene moment is, in fact, ours.
As if sensing my gaze, he stirs, blinking his eyes open slowly to catch me in this intimate act of watching him.
His voice comes out thick with sleep as he murmurs, “You watching me again?”
“Maybe,” I reply softly, a shy smile bending my lips upward, feeling the warmth of the moment.
He groans in a lazy manner and rolls onto his back, effortlessly dragging me with him so I'm sprawling across his chest. His hand ventures into my hair, fingers stroking through the strands in a soothing manner that grounds me even further.
“That’s creepy, baby. Cute, but creepy,” he teases, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, the sound foreign to my ears after days filled with tension and strife.
“It’s not creepy. It’s… appreciating,” I counter.
“Uh-huh.” His mouth curls into a sleepy grin before he tilts his head to place a gentle kiss against my temple.
In that fleeting moment, it feels like this could be what life is meant to be, an uncomplicated morning filled with tender kisses, shared laughter, and silly little jokes.
There are no lurking dangers beyond the window, no shards of memory piercing my chest with reminders of how hard I’ve fought to survive.
There’s just him and me, learning how to breathe again amidst the chaos of life.
Later, as we shuffle around the kitchen, pouring coffee and scrambling eggs, the atmosphere feels almost absurdly domestic. The apartment is small, but it feels infinite, like the world shrinks down to just us, coffee steam curling through sunlight, and the soft scrape of a spatula against a pan.
Xander bumps my hip with his own.
I bump him back.
“You’re taking up all the counter space,” I accuse lightly.
“I take up space everywhere,” he deadpans.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re tiny.”
“I’m not tiny,” I argue, swatting at him with the dish towel.
“You fit under my chin when we hug. That’s tiny.”
I point the spatula at him. “That is a measurement error.”
He steals a kiss mid-sentence.
Dirty. Sneaky. Effective.
Xander steals a bite from my plate, and in playful annoyance, I swat at his hand with the spatula, though secretly, I relish this simple, playful moment.
However, beneath the surface of this domestic bliss lies a nagging whisper curling in my stomach, a reminder that tranquility like this is often fleeting.
Happiness can be fragile, and the shadows that stalked me don’t just vanish forever.
-Xander-
Her laughter echoes off the cabinets, and I swear it’s the prettiest sound in the world. She smacks my hand away from her plate, narrowing her eyes like a feral kitten with a spatula for a weapon.
“Do not steal from me, heathen.”
I arch a brow. “Heathen? Harsh.”
“Get your own.”
“I did,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Yours tastes better.”
She stops, spatula halfway in the air. “You haven’t tasted mine.”
I grin. “Oh, I’ve tasted you.”
Her cheeks bloom with heat, and she tries—tries—to hide the smile.
God, I’d kill for that smile.
-Thalia-
Heat flares across my skin—not from embarrassment, but from awareness. Every time Xander looks at me like that, like I’m something breathtaking, I forget how to be made of anything solid.
He leans close, whispering, “Your blush is my new favorite color.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“Make me.”
His breath ghosts my lips, and the air becomes something thick. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me just a fraction closer, enough for my heartbeat to ricochet in my ears.
“What are we doing?” I breathe.
“Whatever you want.”
The words unravel me as he moves back to casually lean against the counter.
I sip my coffee, watching him with his arms folded, observantly regarding me as though I’m the center of his universe. Perhaps, to him, I am.
I want to hold on to this calm, to believe it will endure. Yet, deep within, I know better. The storm is still out there, lurking on the horizon, waiting for the perfect moment to descend.
The day is enveloped in an eerie silence, the kind that wraps itself around me like a heavy comforter. I try doing normal things.
Laundry.
Cleaning.
Sorting mail.
But every sound feels amplified. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is waiting for me to slip up.
A shadow passes outside the window.
My breath stops.
It’s just a branch moving.
Probably.
That’s the worst part; trauma doesn’t need evidence. It fabricates it.
Xander has taken the car to run a few errands for his dad, leaving me abandoned in the small, cluttered apartment.
Coffee mugs are carelessly strewn across the table, remnants of my aimless attempts at productivity, while my laptop remains open, the cursor blinking mockingly at the blank document.
I had promised myself I would work on assignments, that I would finally dive into my deadlines, but my mind is adrift, restless and unable to settle.
As I reach for my phone, hoping to alleviate the silence with notifications, something mundane to anchor my thoughts, my heart stutters. An unfamiliar text flashes on the screen.
Unknown
You look better in black.
Instantly, a chill cascades down my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My entire body goes cold at the realization. I pace the living room. Once. Twice. Again. I check the peephole even though there’s nothing there.
My senses lie to me.
My fear does not.
The radiator clicks, and I jump. My hands shake so violently I spill water everywhere. I grab paper towels, only to realize my vision is blurring.
“I’m not there,” I whisper. “I’m safe. I’m here.”
But the words don’t feel true.
It could be a harmless mistake. A wrong number. Someone being awkward or strange. Yet, my pulse knows better. I wore that black outfit yesterday, wrapped head to toe in the dark fabric that made me feel invincible. I hadn’t posted it anywhere; no one should have any knowledge of me wearing it.
The shocking words dance in my mind as I drop the phone as though it’s burning my skin. My heartbeat stumbles into a sprint. Sweat beads at my temples, though the apartment is cool. I stand here, frozen, my pulse banging against my throat like fists against a locked door.
It shouldn’t affect me this much.
It shouldn’t make me feel like I’m back in that night again.
But trauma doesn’t ask permission.
It just arrives uninvited.
My phone skitters across the table, vibrating once as if taunting me. Forcing myself to look again, I discover another message waiting.
Unknown
Don’t worry. I still like the red, too.
My stomach lurches sickeningly. The red skirt.
I’ve only worn it for Xander one time whilst engulfed in the safety of my bedroom in the apartment, a piece of clothing that carried intimate memories.
There’s no way this stranger could know that.
Or could they? A bitter taste rises in my throat, the sensation of dread coiling tightly in my stomach.
Shaking, I swipe to open social media, desperate to drown my anxiety in a stream of mindless images and videos.
But there it is, glaring back at me—a new post in one of the small community groups I still occasionally follow from my college days.
There are no names or tags, but the words leap out at me, vibrant and unmistakable.
‘Some girls think they can just erase people. Block a number, delete a profile, pretend like it never happened. But ghosts linger. And some of us don’t forget.’
The comments paint a different picture, laughing or shrugging it off as a vague rant from a bitter ex. But I know better; the message is designed for me. I throw my phone, my heart racing as if it’s trying to escape the confines of my ribs.
The walls close in; the air grows thick and suffocating. My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the counter, forcing myself to inhale, to breathe through the turmoil. Xander isn’t here. He can’t see this chaos convulsing within me. He can’t hear my mind screaming.
He’s watching. He’s too close. He knows.
I don’t know if I should confide in Xander.
A part of me yearns for his strength, for the safety that comes with sharing my fears, yet I hesitate, terrified of making it real.
What if the mere act of speaking it into existence brings the danger crashing down?
Because if I say it out loud, then Xander will act.
And he doesn’t just react; he detonates.
He’s fire.
Beautiful.
Uncontained.