Inherent

Panic.

That’s what hits me first. Something must be wrong—I jolt awake, to complete consciousness, in a split second. My heart hammers. In the back of my mind I know nothing has happened, that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me like it has ever since I woke up in the middle of the night to a phone call from Alex telling me that Caleb was dead.

Sometimes it’s as if my body prepares itself for the worst and shakes me out of sleep just to have a meltdown. Tonight happens to be one of those unfortunate nights, except nothing else feels familiar. I don’t have soft bed sheets underneath me and one of Grandma’s heavy quilts to give me some sparse amount of comfort. Instead, my face is pressed into leather and a warm arm holds tightly to my waist.

Finally, after several long seconds of lying still in catatonic panic I come to the realization that I’m still with Harry, after he talked me into coming back to his house. It’s his arm, protective and secure around me, and his chest pressed firmly to my back.

Nothing’s wrong.

Well, at least nothing that requires my immediate attention. There might be a lot weighing down on my conscience but I try not to think of that, aware that the small scare I’ve just received could very well turn into a full blown panic attack should I allow it to progress that far.

That panic ceases because in Harry’s embrace in the darkened living room, I feel safe. That panic dissipates, but another one takes its place. I don’t want to wake Harry with my nonsense, so I try to carefully pry his heavy arm from around me. His soft breathing hitches for a moment, and then his arm only tightens around my waist and I’m smashed even further back into his torso. He sighs in content at this new level of closeness, still asleep, and I know I’ll have to wake him if I want to get up and sort out my head.

It’s warm. Unbearably hot. Harry must have left the thermostat up, and now the room feels sweltering. I’m sure my shirt is sticking to my body from sheer sweat, though it’s unclear whether the cause of it is the temperature, my fright, or just from being so close to Harry.

For some reason, the security brought by his arm around me evaporates until all I can think of is how I’m trapped in his arms when I shouldn’t even be here, with him, in the first place. It’s a maddened, irrational conclusion, but I’m never in my right mind after waking in such a horrid, startling way.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t. All of the sudden every part of tonight seems like a mistake—all of it. Kissing Harry. Dancing with him, laughing with him. The whole date was a mistake. I was a fool to believe I could ever be anywhere close to normal, and now I regret dragging Harry along with me too. It was a selfish move on my part, and worst of all is that I even knew it at the time. And I still did it.

As I wrack up each and every pathetic, selfish act I’ve done tonight, my panic and pulse increase in unison. My breathing grows shallow and rushed while I’m still pressed into the back of the couch, Harry’s body hiding mine completely from view, right around the same time the room appears to grow even darker. Which certainly isn’t a good thing, since I’m vaguely aware of the sun rising through the balcony doors.

I have to get up. I have to leave; my feet need to move, to clear ground, to escape the situation I put myself in. When I try to gently remove Harry’s large hand from my side and rise again, his once relaxed body turns tense. I curse myself—the last thing I want is for him to witness another one of my pathetic displays.

No. This needs to stop, and it needs to stop now. I can’t allow my charade to go on any longer than it already has. Harry’s going to hate me.

“Jules?” Harry murmurs, not fully conscious. I don’t think about how sexy he sounds when he’s half asleep, his voice thick and even deeper than usual, nor do I think about how much comfort I receive when he catches my hand, frozen on top of his, and pulls me back into him.

I don’t think about it. In fact, it only causes me to panic more.

He shifts his weight, probably stiff like I am from sleeping on his side and on the sofa with another person. I lay still, inert, and try to calm my obvious signs of distress. I can’t for the life of me recall my breathing exercises—what’s the good of them if I can’t practice them when I need them most?

I can’t find my voice to produce a reply. Not even so much as a whimper. Harry seems to become even more alert when all that fills the quiet room is my silence, however, and he probably notices my laboured breathing. If I don’t stop panicking, I know my heart won’t be able to keep up with its own relentless beats. I know that for a fact; as soon as my chest begins to flutter and not in the wonderful way Harry always manages to prompt.

“Julia,” he repeats, gruff and abruptly harsh. The sound of his fear mixing with anger stirs me a little closer to reality, to wanting nothing more than for him to relax and not worry about my stupid antics. When I don’t answer him still, he leans up on his elbow to look down at me, his hand simultaneously squeezing mine and giving a gentle shake to my hip. I squeeze his fingers, laced between mine, in return. Knowing my luck I’ll either start crying or pass out altogether as soon as I open my mouth, and I don’t want to risk either of those possibilities.

Get a hold of yourself, you idiot, I mentally scold myself, but to no avail. When you’re in a panicked state like this nothing makes sense and you especially don’t comprehend the reason for the frightening, terrified feeling that lays low in your gut. It’s this feeling of immense dread, and I feel as if someone’s just died.

All over again.

“Answer me,” he commands, but worry tarnishes the hard edge to his words and it only causes me to feel worse. I shouldn’t have even considered putting the stress that comes with me on top of his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve to have to deal with me.

I try to get up, to give into my instinctual urge to flee, but Harry’s hold on me tightens and he holds me to him, as if he knows exactly how out of my mind I am and not to give into my unnerving silent thoughts. “I need to—” I gasp, outright struggling against him by now. “I need to go.”

Finally Harry’s hand loosens around my waist and my head dizzies when I move to stand up in a rush, all but toppling over Harry and to the floor. Just when I think I’m free of him—or he’s free of me—I realize he stood with me, his hand at my lower back to steady my shaky form. It’s most likely a good thing, too, because I teeter preciously as soon as I’m on my feet.

But he’s right there, pulling me back to steady my shivering body against his firm torso. His arms come around me and I’m sure he’s supporting all of my weight, though he doesn’t complain. Just his presence so close to me brings a wave of calm, protective and secure, but that’s not what I want. I shouldn’t accept his comfort, not like this when I know I should create distance for his sake. I can’t even look up at him and instead I close my eyes to keep my head from spinning.

“Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not just going to let you leave in the middle of the night,” he says, crushing me to him. As if his embrace alone will fix me… what’s sad is I know that if I let it, it just might.

“I’m sorry,” I reply helplessly. And I am. I’m so, so sorry. For a few fleeting moments I stay there in his arms, and I think about Caleb and Dad and my heart and everything else, but most of all I think about Harry. I think about how much I’ve been hurting and how much he’s helped me, and I think about how much of a burden I’ve been to him, and I feel like the most selfish person on the planet.

He ignores my wild apology, and one of his hands leaves my waist to card through my hair, soothing my frazzled nerves ever so slightly. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its harsh quality and softened, as if he’s controlled the frustration that stemmed from his worry. “You’re having another attack, aren’t you?”

Though I remain rigid in his arms, I don’t even have the heart to try and push Harry away. Even when his innocent question amplifies the intense surge of fear and adrenaline sent pumping throughout my system, I can’t fight him. I don’t have it in me.

“No… yes, I don’t know.” The whimper I emit sounds as broken as I feel. One night. I can’t have one single night without screwing something up, can I? To make it all worse, with Harry so close I can smell the faded remnants of his woodsy cologne and the underlying scent of his masculine musk, so indescribable yet so him, I’m reminded of how good he makes me feel. How much better he makes me feel.

And I can’t have that—I can’t have him. The realization is so heart wrenching and painful that I have to withhold a pitiful, raw sob. The cry ascends from the pit of my stomach and forces its way past my chest, fighting to break free from my throat. Now I can’t control myself, my fingers clutch the front of his shirt and my emotions spill over in the vice grip I have on his unfortunate clothing.

“Julia,” Harry abruptly snaps, his fear seemingly festered into anger again. My name barked from Harry’s mouth, already twisted in a frown, shocks me to stillness. My hands on his shirt pause and slowly I slant my gaze upward to try to look at Harry, to see how angry I’ve made him. But as soon as the hint of rage appeared, however, it’s gone and replaced with a look of even more concern that softens his features. An ache appears in my throat at all the hurt I’m causing him now, too, and Harry offers me a deep sigh while he peers down at me with hooded eyes.

He’s never talked to me in such a way before. It’s frightening to be on the receiving end of Harry’s fury, sparked so suddenly and without warning. Even so, his deep boom does what was most likely intended—it shuts me up completely. Hell, I’ve even stopped breathing. As I stare up at him, I become suddenly aware of his towering height and how easily he can bruise up my side if he wanted to. If he just squeezed a little tighter.

Realizing he’s scared me to a stunned silence, Harry swears softly and closes his eyes for a long moment. I watch him with a frightened sort of fascination and wonder which emotions he is warring with beneath the shields of his eyelids, and which is winning. I don’t get a glimpse of them when he flutters them open, though, because as soon as he does he takes me with a hand clasped firmly around my waist, walking away from the sofa we spent the night on and toward the balcony.

He unlocks the doors in a single deft action, and the grey early morning sky that greets us is almost unnerving. Just below the horizon, the sun hasn’t yet had a chance to warm the earth from the night.

We must have been asleep for hours. While my feet carry me at Harry’s side in a robotic, dazed fashion, I can’t help but to admit again that it was the most peaceful sleep I’ve gotten in a long time. For some reason I know I didn’t toss or turn once while sleeping in Harry’s arms. It’s scary, how much his presence calms me, heals every broken piece of my soul, as if he sewed the fragments of my tattered mind back together with his compassion and acceptance.

“You need some fresh air,” he offers quietly by way of explanation, and I think that maybe it will do him some good too. I hate that I’ve ruined this incredible night we shared. When Harry recalls the date he had with the weird bookstore girl, he won’t think about dancing to swing music or kissing at the top of the balcony seats. He’ll think about how she woke up positively freaking out for no apparent reason.

Only for a moment do I have the clear state of mind to think about how we slept in our clothes and draped over each other on the sofa, and then the chilly early morning air nips at my exposed skin. Temporarily brought from my lapse of panic, I look around bleary-eyed to see Harry’s very own private terrace; complete with a small patch of grass, a barbecue, and an empty in-ground pool. It’s a beautiful little sliver of escape and refuge.

Fresh air—I inhale deeply behind closed eyes, even the grey morning too bright for my sensitive vision. Harry pauses when I do and he stays close to me, his side pressed against mine and his fingertips dance up and down my back.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, tucking my head underneath his chin, and I’ve never felt more secure despite all of my fears. Harry always seems to know exactly how I feel and what I need. The premise alone is staggering, but he’s accomplished it. I lose myself in my mind, in his mesmerising touch and his gentle, whispered words of comfort. I’m not even aware when he leads me further out onto the terrace and sits us both down until he caresses my cheek with his free hand, wiping away tears I didn’t even know I’d shed.

Underneath me I feel a thin cushion and hard wicker brushes the backs of my legs. I open my eyes in dazed confusion to see Harry sat down next to me, holding me around the waist with my back pressed into his chest. In the clouded depths of his olive eyes I catch a glimpse of concealed sadness. I know he’s sad for me and I hate it, I hate that he feels he has to be strong for me too. He doesn’t owe me anything, and he certainly doesn’t have to put up with my mess.

Damn, that really is what I am. A complete mess. I don’t know how on earth Harry puts up with this, me, my sporadic ‘attacks’ and my sadness and my hurt, all rolled up into one jumbled bundle of chaos. Vaguely, I take in what is surely the magnificent view of Chicago’s skyline and Lake Michigan Harry has. It’s as if my eyes don’t process any of the information, out of focus while I’m left reeling and on the coattails of panic.

Harry gently guides me backward. I let him, and I lay across his lap while my feet stretch out over the small love seat, my back supported by the armrest’s soft cushion while Harry sits normally, holding me as if I’m some sort of fragile doll.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong at first, or what this is even all about, and for a long time he allows me to just like that, comforted and also terrified by the silence and everything left unsaid. By the secret I’m still keeping, the senseless stupid secret that’s ballooned into a huge, dramatic problem. A problem only I am at the root of.

“Relax,” he tells me quietly as he runs a hand down my arm, feeling how stiff I’ve gone and as if his touch will rid me of the tension. And then, I realize, it does. His hand lingers upward to run through my hair thrown haphazard over one shoulder, and gentle fingers tug at the knots that occurred while I slept. It’s only know I feel how tense my body is, and for the life of me I just can’t seem to calm down, to relax like Harry urges me.

Swimming in worry and stuck in the shock of all my reckless actions over the past twenty four hours, there’s no way I can possibly relax. Even with his soothing touches—those are what I gave into and what got me into such a predicament in the first place. He sighs again, and although I don’t have the nerve to look at him I try to imagine what emotions would flit across his chiseled, dangerously handsome features. Would his plump lips drop in a frown, his eye brows crease from concern? Or maybe a roll of his eyes accompanied the heavy sigh, and maybe he’s finally fed up with me.

It’d be a smart decision on his part. I wish out of the two of us that he would give up on me, like I’ve begged him to do so many times. I wish that he’d see I’ve given up on myself, that I’m not strong like he is, and that there’s no point.

I’m unfixable. My heart is unfixable.

After all, this little freak out of mine is just another reminder of how I can never be normal and that I can never really have Harry wholly, not like I want to.

Involuntary, my jaw clenches and my eyes squeeze shut to keep the tears threatening to spill again at bay. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, probably with that sad knowing look of his, and he sees I’m a blubbering mess even though I have visibly calmed. And just like he always does, he understands exactly what I need.

“Tell me,” he breaks the silence of the grey morning with his quiet urge. His deep voice has gone uncharacteristically soft, and I know it’s not from sleep since a minute ago shouted at me with full force. I know he’s trying to be delicate with this, with me. Even so, his quiet gentle questioning stirs a newfound fear, and I lay still when his hand comes to rest tenderly on my shoulder. I open my eyes in an effort to sneak a peek at him to see whether or not he’s serious, but I flinch back when I see that he is studying my face with intensity.

“Tell you what?” I ask, my voice meek in comparison even to his subdued tone.

“Tell me,” he repeats, firm and unbothered by my slight recoil. “Tell me what happened, just now.”

This side of Harry is new to me too, and I stare in shock. This side of Harry is intense in a whole new way. While I might be scared out of my mind to give him any kind of answer, his persistent questioning doesn’t make me queasy like it would if he were anyone else. Instead, his concerned curiosity gives me cause to scramble and make some sense of my mixed-up thoughts.

To give him an explanation—an explanation he deserves. He’d probably much rather be sleeping in than dealing with my piteous show of weakness, and I bet he isn’t too happy about having slept in such a cramped position on the sofa all night either. With my heart steadily picking up its pace, I fumble with fragmented words to tell him something. Anything to explain what the hell just happened to me in a way that he’ll understand.

“I just… I woke up, and I guess it scared me being in a strange place. I’m sorry if I scared you.” It sounds even worse out loud, and as made up as it really is.

“Bullshit,” he calls. Despite the force within the one word, he manages to remain quiet. Soft, and non-threatening to me. He eyes me in suspicion. Good. Maybe he’s catching on to what a total selfish liar I am. Yet another smaller part of me suspects, however, that he knows how much I’m hurting and that more than anything else, I might just need to talk. I might need to let it out, as much as the words get stuck at the base of my throat and as much as it hurts to force them free.

“Something’s bothering you. Tell me, sweetheart.” My vision blurs and my heart breaks at his quiet, controlled desperation.

“I don’t ever do this, Harry,” I choke, trying to get up off his lap as soon as the rushed sentence spills from my mouth. I tried in vain to keep my voice as controlled as his, but in it laid a distinct note of hysteria.

As soon as I try to push myself up, Harry’s hand presses back on my shoulder and he shakes his head. Maybe he’s as aware as I am that if I escape his grasp now, I’d head straight out the door and I’d probably be back to ignoring his existence like I tried so hard to do in the first place. What he wouldn’t know, though, is that it would be for his benefit.

“Do what?” he urges me on, quiet and calm on the exterior. I get the feeling he knows exactly what I mean. It makes me simultaneously angry and appreciative that he seems to be so aware of me and my thoughts. Appreciate because a lot of the time it makes things easy with him, but it also has me up in arms in a moment like this when he wants me to talk and it hurts so much.

“This!” I fling my hands out around us in a wild, flurried gesture. On an overwhelmed huff I try once more in vain to slide from his hold, but his arm only locks around my waist and his brow creases when he holds me there.

“Stay here. You don’t need to get up,” he orders, though I’m too out of my mind to feel intimidated. So I sit, trapped, and chew my lip to keep anything else from stupidly falling out of my mouth. Harry continues to stare at me, causing my face to heat and for me to feel as insecure and self-conscious as ever, and finally I clue in that he refuses to let this go. He wants me to spill.

“This, Harry,” I stress, but there’s no heat to my words and my hands remain stationary at my sides. I’ve lost the frustrated confidence my panic spurred. “We’ve hardly known each other for a couple of weeks, and here I am spending the night with you. I’ve never—Jesus, I’ve never done anything like this.”

I don’t have to point out our heated kisses and our dancing and the way we seem to always have to touch each other, like right now. I don’t have to point out that we have this mutual understanding and acceptance for each other that I’ve never felt with anyone else, and I’m sure I don’t have to mention exactly how much I like him. Because I do. A lot.

And while I’m telling him things he already knows, I’m sure, it feels so much better to get it all off my chest and out of my mouth. By the end of my rant I’m left panting, a nervous sweat formed at my hairline, and I’m almost outraged when I catch sight of Harry’s reaction. The corners of his lips tug up into a bemused smile, though I see that he’s fighting off his infectious grin valiantly.

“It’s not funny!” I snap out of sheer frustration, and Harry’s quick to sober at my small outburst. He draws me closer, arms around my waist while my cheek comes to rest on his shoulder. At first I remain tense, unwilling for once to give in to my selfish needs, but Harry doesn’t relent either. He hugs me, and he hugs me long and hard until the hysteria has all but left my system. He trails his hand up and down my back like he always does when I’m in such a state, and in it I find reassurance and comfort.

My eyes remain unblinking while I look out over the terrace to the rest of city, which is slowly coming to life. I start to realize how silly all this is of me, to put him on the spot and lay all this on him at such an insane time. If I hadn’t been in hysterics, I would much rather have waited… or, you know, not told him at all.

One of Harry’s hands leaves my waist to linger upward and he caresses my jawline, silent while I try to calm down again.

“Did we have sex?”

“No!” I reply, indignant, and I pull back to look at him in humiliated disbelief. It’s feels as if my heart stutters to a stop from his question, posed simply and without delicacy. This Harry reminds me of the Harry I first met at the presentation, business-like and upfront. There’s no beating around the bush with him right now, and it seems he’s changed tactics from just a moment ago when he was soft spoken and running his hand up and down my back.

“Exactly. All we did was talk and fall asleep, sweetheart. That’s nothing to be afraid of ashamed of.”

He isn’t even kidding around, and hell I really wish he was. I wish there was a humored glint sparkling in the intensity of his green eyes, but he’s serious. He’s aware of how much this has upset me, and while he probably doesn’t understand it, he’s humoring me in the nicest way possible. And in a totally embarrassing way, too. I take a few seconds to process his claim and the confidence in which he spoke it, and I begin to think that maybe he’s right; maybe this isn’t as big of a deal as I think it is or how huge my exhausted mind tries to make it out to be.

Conflicted, I try hard now to calm down and thing this through, and maybe with a touch of rationality. I realize several things all at once—one; that scaring myself out of sleep is what caused our current mess, and two; that there isn’t really a reason for me to be upset. There’s nothing I can do at this very moment because I slept in Harry arms and now I’m perched on his lap, allowing his comfort to soothe me. The damage has already been done.

Another few moments pass in tense silence. Tense for me. I study him, his beautiful, steady jade eyes, and I try to find a crack in him as big as the one in my heart. My face meanwhile still feels as if it’s been lit by an entire book of matches at his bold argument, and suddenly I feel exhausted. I’m exhausted by the constant lie I’ve been telling Harry, I’m exhausted because I’ve had a long day then spent all night out on an adventurous date I wouldn’t change for the world, and I’m exhausted because I just want to be normal.

Ultimately, I release a weary sigh and drop my head back to rest on Harry’s chest in the firm space between his sternum and his shoulder, and I subconsciously take comfort in the beat of his heart. I close my eyes and allow myself one of those sparse seconds of tranquility. Out here on Harry’s terrace things almost slow down… or maybe it’s the sense he’s managed to talk into me. I’m not quite sure, but for once, I feel at ease. So I stay quiet, I don’t voice any of my concerns, and I bask in the heat of the rising sun.

When Harry’s shoulders begin to shake, however, it knocks me out of my momentary peace and I tilt my head to squint up at him in curiosity. My gaze is quick to narrow and turn accusing, but when I see his dimples popped, eyes twinkling with what appears to be happiness, and his wide smile. There’s nothing mocking about his silent chuckle; if anything there might even be a drop of adoration to the way he looks at me. My eyes don’t stay narrowed for long, and fighting a smile myself I choose to interrogate him with a light, free heart.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, tiredness seeping through even though there’s no way I can sleep right now.

Still laughing, Harry shakes his head and gathers me back into his arms, the quakes in his shoulders becoming less frequent as he nuzzles into my shoulder. I rest my hand at the nape of his neck and glide my fingers gently through his hair. Since I know now how much he enjoys me doing that, I might just have to take advantage of it.

“You’re adorable, Julies,” he declares softly, and my heart leaps in a wondrous way when I hear the genuine smile in his voice.

I shake my head against him, closing my eyes again, and I wonder how anyone—especially Harry—could think that I’m cute for getting so worked up over something so small. Surely my timid inexperience can’t be attractive to Harry…

Then I stop myself. I halt my train of worried thoughts and I lose the glacial shell over my heart, and I enjoy this moment with Harry. Together we stay out here on his terrace, wound around each other and sharing warmth until the sun is well up over the horizon.

As wrong as it is… I’m glad I stayed.

Notes

Hello again, lovelies. Another bit of fluff pour vous, though I swear this all works into the plot. It really does. The story is split between Julia's inner conflict and the outward action.

Speaking of, in the next few chapters we'll delve into the plot more and get to the thick of the story. I promise. Also, after the next chapter there will be another chapter in Harry's POV. I find that I love writing his side of the story... and I hope you don't mind either :)

Okay. Enough rambling. I'd love, love, love to hear what you thought. Favourite part/line... if you have one? Thanks for reading/commenting/rating!