Page 88 of Shattered Obsession

“That sound I’m addicted to.”

The quiet stretches between us, but it transforms, softening into something tender instead of sharp. He sips his coffee, and I nibble on the toast, the intimacy of this silence allowing me to realize that we’re slowly finding our way back to each other.

Later, as we stand together at the sink, tidying up the breakfast dishes, he reaches for my hand. This time, it’s not born from desperation but a steady assurance. My breath hitches slightly, but I don’t freeze, don’t pull away. Instead, I let him gently tug me toward the couch. He sinks into the cushions first and opens his arms, not demanding, not assuming. Inviting. I crawl into his lap slowly, almost timid.

He tucks his chin on top of my head, holding me like I’m something precious.

We don’t talk.

We don’t have to.

The quiet isn’t empty; it’s full, surrendering to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat, a sound that signifies safety, warmth, home.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he murmurs softly into my hair, his voice thick with regret. “I was mad at him. At everything. At the fact that I can’t tear this world apart fast enough to ensure you never have to endure pain again.” His words penetrate deep, unraveling something inside me. My throat tightens, and tears threaten to spill over, but unlike before, these tears aren’t born from fear. They stem from a profound relief.

“I know,” I whisper, gripping his shirt as though it’s my lifeline. “I know, Xander. And I don’t need perfection. I just need you.”

His arms surround me tightly, and for hours, we remain like this, no tension, no arguments, just enveloping each other in the comfort of our presence. For the first time, I understand that love isn’t fireworks or whirlwind romance. It’s safety. It’s being able to breathe without flinching. It’s knowing that even when things get loud, they won’t get violent. Love isn’t the absence of conflict. It’s the presence of peace.

-Thalia-

I open the door to go get the mail when I see it. The package is small, deceptively so. Wrapped in dull brown paper, it bears no return address, only my name scrawled in a hurried, uneven handwriting that sends a shiver down my spine. I stare at it like it might sprout teeth.

My brain does that thing where it jumps ahead, painting images I don’t want.

A note. A threat. Evidence of him standing here.

My vision blurs around the edges.

This isn’t paranoia.

This is memory.

The sight of it perched ominously on the welcome mat sends my pulse racing. A knot tightens in my stomach. The realization washes over me: no one knows my address. No one except Xander, Isla, the leasing office... and him.

As I bend down slowly, my fingers hover over the box, trembling like leaves in a gale. I hesitate, caught between the instinct to flee and the desperate need to know what’s inside. I can’t just leave it there, not when it’s marked with my name.

Finally, I gather my courage and scoop it up, cradling it in my hands as if it were a ticking time bomb. The weight of the package shifts within, impeding my breath and making the air in the apartment feel colder, more oppressive.

Once inside, the atmosphere feels charged, as though the walls are closing in around me. I place the box on the kitchen counter, staring at it with anxiety, trying to will it not to come alive. My heart races as I muster the strength to rip open the paper. The tearing sound is maddeningly loud in the silence. A single object clinks onto the countertop—a lighter. Silver and polished to a shine. It’s the same kind Damian flicked on and off during our date, that flickering flame so innocent yet loaded with memories I’m desperate to forget.

This isn’t random. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s him, finding a way to remind me of his existence. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I don’t hesitate this time. I grab my phone and dial Xander, my voice shaky but urgent.

“Hey, baby,” he answers, his tone instantaneously warm, but that warmth falters as I interrupt him.

“There was a package,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of dread. “On the doorstep. No return address. It’s his lighter, Xander. I know it is.”

A silence ensues, heavy and suffocating, until his voice emerges, draining away any hint of warmth. “Don’t touch it again. I’m coming right now.”

“Xander—”

“Thalia.” The sharpness of his tone disallows any argument. “Stay inside. Lock every door, every window. Don’t move until I’m there.”

My hands tremble as I fumble to work the lock, but I force myself to take a deep breath and push through the anxiety. I double-check the sliding door and the kitchen window, ensuring they are secured. Then, trembling, I curl up on the couch, deliberately avoiding looking at the counter, where the lighter lies like an unwelcome guest, taunting me with its presence. I tuck myself into the smallest shape possible.

One hand grips my phone so tightly my knuckles turn white.

The other clutches Xander’s sweatshirt, dragging it to my face so all I can smell is him.