Chapter 25 Out of Reach
Eight weeks.
That's how long it took for silence to start pretending it was peace.
The house sat on the edge of nowhere—half-wild grass, a cracked fence, and an ocean that looked too calm to have ever known violence. The city was still rebuilding. Syndicate Tower was under construction again, glass bones rising from the ruins, but we stayed far away. Here, the only noise came from the wind and the slow hum of living.
Damian moved through the house like a ghost trying to remember how to be human. His bandages were gone now, though his left arm still trembled when he tried to lift heavy things. Sometimes, when the light hit him a certain way, I saw the faint silver line that ran down his chest—the scar the world would never know he carried.
I woke up to the smell of burnt toast one morning and found him frowning at the toaster like it had personally wronged him.
“I told you not to leave it on five,” I said, laughing before I could stop myself.
He turned, expression half-apology, half-pride. “Progress. It's only slightly on fire this time.”
The sound of my laugh startled us both. It had been weeks since I'd heard it out loud. I didn't know whether to thank him or cry.
Later, we ate outside. The air was cool, salt-heavy. He sat across from me, sleeves rolled up, eyes softer than I remembered. Every now and then, I caught him watching me like he was trying to memorize something he didn't trust time to keep.
“Do you miss it?” I asked quietly.
“The city.”
He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “I miss the noise. It made the guilt quieter.”
I didn't ask what guilt. I already knew. We'd both left pieces of ourselves in that explosion—him literally, me emotionally. The silence between us wasn't empty anymore, though. It was… full. Like the pause before a confession you're too afraid to make.
By afternoon, we found ourselves cleaning the garden out back. Half the soil was dry and stubborn, the other half overgrown with weeds. Damian knelt beside me, sleeves dirty, sun cutting across his face.
“You're terrible at this,” I teased, watching him dig crooked lines.
“Precision wasn't part of the deal,” he said.
“Was there a deal?”
He looked up then, a faint smile tugging his mouth. “Maybe we should make one.”
Something in the way he said it made my heart trip over itself. I didn't ask what kind of deal. I just smiled back and kept planting.
By evening, I found him sitting on the porch steps, fingers brushing over a notebook he'd been pretending not to write in for days. When I asked, he said it was nothing. When I pressed, he handed it over with that reluctant kind of trust that feels like a small miracle.
Inside, the pages were filled with half-sentences, sketches, and notes—blueprints for things that didn’t exist anymore. But there was one line at the top of the last page that stopped me cold:
“If we survived for a reason, I want to find out what it is—with her.”
He must have seen my face because he looked away fast, his jaw tightening.
“Don't,” he muttered. “It's nothing.”
But it wasn't nothing. It was everything I'd been too afraid to say first.
That night, rain came hard and sudden. We sat by the window, watching the drops streak down the glass. The power flickered once, twice, then settled into a dim hum.
“Do you ever think about them?” I asked.
“The others?”
He nodded slowly. “Every night. Especially the ones I couldn't save.”
I reached over before I could stop myself, my hand finding his. His skin was warm, the pulse under my fingers steady and real. He didn’t pull away. For the first time, he didn't hide behind silence.
We didn't talk after that. Didn't need to. The rain filled in the words we couldn't say.
When it stopped, the world outside glowed with the kind of stillness that feels like a new beginning.
He stood, looked down at me, then hesitated. “Elena,” he said, like my name was both a warning and a promise.
“Yes?”
He didn't answer. Just brushed a wet strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingered for a second too long.
The moment stretched, breathless and fragile. I thought he'd kiss me. I wanted him to. But he stepped back instead, eyes full of something raw.
“I'll make tea,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
I sat there, heart still beating in that space he'd just left behind.
It was close to midnight when I found him asleep on the couch, a cup of untouched tea cooling on the table. His phone buzzed against the wood, a low, steady vibration that cut through the quiet.
I almost ignored it. But the screen lit up, and I saw the name.
ISLA.
I froze.
The letters burned through the dark, sharp and clean, like they belonged to another life.
For a second, I thought about waking him. Asking who she was. But I didn't. I just stood there, watching the phone buzz once more, then stop.
His chest rose and fell evenly, peaceful in a way I hadn't seen before. Maybe it wasn't my place to break that. Not yet.
Still, the name lingered in my mind like a splinter.
When I finally went upstairs, the sea wind slipped through the open window, carrying the faint smell of rain and burnt toast. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts louder than the waves.
He had his ghosts.
And I had mine.
But for the first time, they didn't feel so far apart.
Out of reach—but closer than before.
Who exactly is Isla and why is she texting him non-stop?