Page 102 of Terms of Exposure
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Damien leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, trying to look stern—but the corner of his mouth kept twitching.
And Sebastian, propped up against his pillows like a king holding court, seemed to live for every crack in his brother's composure.
They had the same jaw. The same stubborn set to their shoulders. But where Damien was controlled, contained—every emotion locked behind a fortress of professionalism—Sebastian let everything spill out. Every smirk, every eye roll, every terrible joke delivered with the timing of a man who knew exactly how annoying he was being.
And I loved every second of it.
"You know," Sebastian mused, "for a guy who runs a billion-dollar company, you're remarkably easy to rile up."
"And for a guy who almost died, you're remarkably determined to finish the job."
"What can I say?" Sebastian spread his hands wide. "I like to live dangerously."
"Clearly," Damien muttered. But there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion. And beneath that—so far beneath I almost missed it—relief.
He'd almost lost his brother.
I'd been so focused on Sebastian's recovery, on the day-to-day progress, that I'd almost forgotten the terror that had preceded it. The phone call that had shattered Damien's world. The waiting. The not knowing.
Emma had told me pieces of it. How Damien had barely slept those first few days. How he'd talked to Sebastian for hours, even when the doctors said he probably couldn't hear.
Looking at them now—bickering over baseball cards and sponge baths like nothing had happened—I understood something I hadn't before.
This was how the Holts loved.
Not with soft words or tender declarations. With insults and threats and the unshakable certainty that no matter how bad things got, they'd show up. Again and again and again.
My phone buzzed again.
I groaned, pulling it from my purse and slipping from the room. Sebastian's gaze burningholes in my back.
The hallway was quiet. Sterile. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that flat, unforgiving white that made even the healthy look ill. I leaned against the wall and looked at my screen.
Twelve missed calls.
Forty-three texts.
All from Garrett.
I scrolled with numb fingers, watching the messages shift like a mood ring from black to red.
Garrett: I miss you.
Garrett: Can we please talk?
Garrett: I'm trying here, Candace. I'm really trying.
Garrett: I went to therapy today. I'm getting help. For you.
Garrett: Why won't you answer me?
Garrett: I saw your Instagram story. You're at the hospital again?
Garrett: Who's the guy in the background?
