Page 181 of Terms of Exposure
Remade.
"Floaty," I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper. "Like... I'm not all the way back yet."
"That's normal." His thumb resumed its gentle strokes. "It takes time to come back."
I blinked at him, trying to process. "How long was I...?"
"About ten, maybe fifteen minutes." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Felt longer, though. For both of us."
Tears pricked at my eyes.
"Hey, hey." Damien shifted, gathering me into his lap, blanket and all. I curled against his chest like a child, tucking my head beneath his chin. His arms wrapped around me—solid, warm, safe. "It's okay. Let it out. Whatever you're feeling, let it out."
The tears came then. Not sobs—just a quiet, steady leak down my cheeks. I didn't even know what I was crying about.
The intensity?
The vulnerability?
The overwhelming safety of being held by someone who'd seen every broken, desperate, beautiful part of me and wanted me anyway?
"You were incredible," Damien murmured against my hair. "So fucking incredible, Emma. Do you have any idea?"
I shook my head weakly.
His arms tightened. "I've never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life."
A fresh wave of tears spilled over.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you. You're safe. You did so well."
We stayed like that for a long time. Minutes, maybe. Or hours. Time had gone slippery again, impossible to hold.
He showered words of praise along with his kisses.
Eventually, the tears slowed. The trembling eased. I became aware of smaller things—the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the warmth of his skin against mine.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. I think so."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "There's one more thing we need to do."
I looked up at him, confused.
His hand found my braid—still secured, still wrapped with the burgundy ribbon he'd tied what felt like a lifetime ago. His fingers found a small bow at the end, tugged gently.
"Remember what I said? About how you'd know when we were done?"
The ribbon slid free.
Slowly, carefully, he unwound it from my hair. Then his fingers worked through the braid itself, loosening each twist, separating the strands until my hair fell around my shoulders.
"There," he said softly, tucking a curl behind my ear. "Now we can be us again."
"Damien," I breathed—his name, not his title.
"Emma." He smiled. "Hi."
