Page 78 of Shattered Obsession

The words echo like thunder rolling through the hollow place in my chest that I didn’t realize still existed. I always thought relationships were about owing, about proving your worth so the other person doesn’t leave.

But Xander… he hands power back to me without even knowing he’s doing it.

“I don’t match you,” I whisper, voice trembling before I can catch it. “You’re stronger.”

He shakes his head slowly, like I’m missing something obvious. “Strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about what you do after.”

I swallow hard.

“What if I break again?”

“Then I’ll be there while you put yourself back together.”

Not fix me.

Not rescue me.

Be there.

My throat tightens. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” he replies. “But you’re worth the work.”

“I am now.” There’s a flicker of something deep in his eyes, an emotion that makes my chest squeeze in an all-too-familiar way.

His forehead presses to mine, grounding me. No grand speeches, no declarations dripping with empty promise, just quiet conviction.

Maybe love isn’t supposed to feel like a fight for survival.

Maybe it can feel like a homecoming.

The words sink into me with the slow ache of healing, raw but necessary. I didn’t know affection could feel like strength rather than weakness. I didn’t know being held could feel like being chosen.

My fingertips find their way to his jaw, tracing the evidence of my earlier enthusiasm—those scratch marks, angry but somehow familiar.

With a gentle shift, he rolls us onto our sides, pulling me close and tucking me against his chest. The heat radiating off him is intoxicating, and I relish in the way his heart beats steadily beneath my ear, a rhythm that grounds me like nothing else. Silence envelops us for what feels like an eternity as his fingers continue their slow, soothing dance along my back, and I breathe in the intoxicating mix of his scent—a blend of sweat, warmth, and something uniquely him. The remnants of our fight still linger in the air like smoke, but entwined within that tension is an undeniable fire, the spark that ignites everything between us.

I listen to the sound of his breathing. The opposite of chaos. The opposite of everything I knew. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I put my ear to his chest and count the beats.

One for safety.

Two for peace.

Three because I’m still here.

Xander traces lazy shapes on my spine. Circles. Lines. Nothing that follows a pattern, nothing that expects me to decode it.

“You overthink,” he whispers.

“How do you know?”

“You hold your breath when you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re terrified.”

The denial dies on my tongue.