Page 106 of Terms of Exposure
He'd threatened—well, suggested—therapy when all this began.
And out of anger, frustration, and exhaustion I'd reminded him.
Stupid fucking idiot.
Now it was no longer a suggestion.
Damien had found her—vetted her, probably interviewed her, definitely researched her credentials down to her undergraduate GPA. He'd assured me she was "kink-aware," which was apparently a thing therapists could be, and that she came highly recommended by people in "the community."
A community I was officially a part of... I guess.
I'd been trying not to think about it. Trying to let the eucalyptus and the pseudo-spiritual soundtrack do their job, to exist in this hour of mandated peace without my brain racing ahead to everything waiting on the other side of it.
It didn't work.
The massage table suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a holding cell. Sixty minutes of enforced stillness before I had to walk into a warm, quiet office and say things out loud that I'd been very carefully trying not to say.
My jaw tightened against the headrest.
He'd apologized.
I'd threatened.
We'd moved on.
Or pretended to.
Ingrid's hands moved to my lower back, and I forced myself to breathe. To let the pressure unknot something physical, even if the mental knots stayed tied.
My mind drifted as Ingrid worked her way down my arms, the knots in my shoulders slowly surrendering. The piano had replaced the whale sounds, and I let myself think about something easier.
Sebastian was probably driving the nurses crazy. He'd been increasingly restless the past few days, his sharp wit returning in full force now that the fog of medication had lifted. Yesterday he'd convinced Candace to smuggle in a burger from the place down the street—against doctor's orders—and somehow charmed the night nurse into looking the other way.
But the best news had come earlier this afternoon. Discharge planning. Maybe by the end of the week if his numbers stay stable.
Rosie had burst into tears.
Happy ones, for once. Ones that came with laughter and hands pressed to her mouth and rapid-fire Italian that none of us understood but all of us felt. She'd hugged me so hard it hurt, and then she'd hugged Candace, and then she'd hugged the nurse who happened to be walking by, and by the time she got to Damien she was laughing and crying and saying something aboutil mio ragazzocoming home.
Home.
Sebastian was coming home.
Not healed—not yet, maybe not for a long time—but alive. Breathing on his own. Cracking jokes and flirting with nurses and driving his brother up the wall.
It felt like a miracle.
Candace would probably still visit—she'd become a fixture at this point, showing up with puzzles and paperbacks and that particular brand of sunshine that seemed to make Sebastian's gaze go soft.
I'd noticed. So had Damien.
My lips curved against the face cradle.
Maybe things were actually going to be okay.
The thought felt reckless.
But lying here, muscles loose, mandatory relaxation working despite my best efforts to resist it—
