Inherent

Lucy. A name I have never heard before… yet I have seen her; once way back when Harry and I went on our first lunch date. She was standing all the way across the fountain, staring at us with an observing, indifferent scrutiny. Of course my naïve, trusting self didn’t think too much of it. Harry stared back at her, then, and he looked utterly struck by her appearance.

I even asked who she was.

No one important, he said. And lied—because back there just now, Lucy seemed pretty damned important. Now there’s another question added to my constantly expanding list: why lie about her? Who is she to him? To think I let it all go that day, so coolly and didn’t overthink it like I do with everything else… well, I feel like more of an idiot than ever.

Exhausted, I do a double take at the bar as we pass by on the way back to our booth, feeling surreal because through all that has just happened I am supposed to act as if everything is normal. When it isn’t at all.

We were only gone for a short ten minutes, but it feels like much more of an eternity.

“I think I’m going to get something to drink.” I decide I really need one, now. Maybe it will help me relax, slow down the runaway thoughts and my erratic heart.

Halfway turning, Perrie glances from me to the bar with a skeptical expression, eyebrows raised. “Want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s fine. You go on,” I say quickly, not wanting to take up any more of her time than I already have. I’d be even more of a liar if I claimed not to need not to need a minute alone and sort out my thoughts. If anything can even be sorted.

“Alright, well we’re just over here around the corner okay?” I manage a smile and nod to Perrie, appreciative of her protective nature, before she ventures back to join Eleanor and Vivian back at their booth.

At the bar, I quickly decide I need to get off my feet and sit at the only unoccupied seat available. It’s hard to even feel a little humiliated for how I have to all but climb up to sit on the black leather cushion of the stool or how my feet dangle a little higher than everyone else’s due to my shortness. All alone I sit on the far end, my eyes darting everywhere, but not in search of Harry. Quite the opposite now, actually, as I look around in fear of being spotted by him when in such a state—though ultimately it becomes clear he still hasn’t returned to the main part of the club, that he is still busy with Lucy. The supposedly unimportant woman. I want to scoff, now, but feel far too confused and sad to even think about being angry with Harry for lying to me. After all, it’s not like I have never lied to him. I just—I didn’t expect it, and now I feel like a fool for believing he is exactly as I thought I saw him, how I was so sure I knew him.

When the female bartender finally makes her way over to me, smiling through all the stress the busy club is surely putting on her, I pick something random off the menu, something on the rocks, and the first taste of the strong, golden liquid causes my nose to wrinkle and I cover up a stunned, sore-throated cough.

Yes—it’s without doubt as strong as the bartender assured me it was. Unfortunately, however, it isn’t as much of a distraction as I hoped it would be. Actually, it tastes so horrid I don’t even want to try another sip. But I do. I drink because I’ve never allowed myself to do something like this before and damn, I am desperate, and maybe Vivian’s advice throughout the years is sound after all; maybe I just need to take off the edge.

It only ends up making me feel worse, and though foolish I feel like somewhat of an alcoholic. Not for the fact that I’m drinking at all, but for my intentions and motive for doing so. My thoughts don’t slow down and neither does my heart, which I check by pressing my fingertips lightly to the left of my chest. It’s there, beating strong and steady, though too quick and uneasy for my liking. Doing so causes my hand to brush against Harry’s pendant, and I try to take comfort from it like I have every other time I needed its reassurance. Instead, I start to feel sick. By the time my phone vibrates against my hip with an incoming call, I feel totally nauseated, jolting forward in slight fright—a delayed reaction thanks to the drink I so foolishly knocked back not minutes ago. And maybe it is because of the drink, too, that I don’t even make a move to bring my phone out to answer it or see who is calling. Without having to look I know who it must be and right now, so soon, I can’t face Harry. After a second’s worth of hesitation, I let it ring for several long guilt-ridden moments before my phone eventually fall silent, its vibration having seemed louder than anything else in the club at the time. The bartender asks if I would like another, and I consent though only so I wouldn’t feel pressured to vacate my seat.

She refills my glass with the same golden liquid, but I admittedly don’t pay much attention to the process or what she even puts into it, and when the glass is finally in my possession again I settle for rotating it on the counter, the ice cubes gently swirling around and around, resembling my thoughts which run in constant overwrought circles.

Not a minute later my hip vibrates again with another incoming call. With a sigh, I pull it from my pocket only to press the sleep button so the device falls silent, the call ignored. Main Squeeze flashes across the screen and I stare at it blankly, the name Harry cheekily chose for himself when he snuck into my contacts list some time ago.

Since I sat down I am no closer to figuring out how to approach what I witnessed with Harry… or if I should at all, or what any of it even was. Is it my business? Well, perhaps not, but until tonight I’ve never witnessed him so absolutely enraged and while aware he is capable, the first time I’ve ever seen him remotely want to harm someone. The girl seemed fine and as if she could hold her own, but every fact of the scene jarred me to my core. None of this may be any of my concern, sure, though my boundless curiosity has already gotten the better of me. All the things he said to her made zero sense to my ignorant ears, and the way he pinned her to the wall—there weren’t any sexual feelings involved, that much is clear. During the tense moment, it looked like Harry wanted to hurt her. Right as I come to the conclusion with a thick, heavy swallow and eyes far away from taking in the bar scene in front of me, two things happen: Alex’s warning rings though my mind, loud and clear, and suddenly accurate; and then a hand clasps around my upper arm to spin my chair around, the movement causing me to feel slightly sick and sway to the side as I’m now faced with a view of the rest of the club. The fingers wrapped firmly around my arm ensure there is no chance I could fall, however, and my sights are all but totally blocked by a large, shadowed figure.

Tonight is the first time I have ever seen Harry resemble anything even close to frightened—but the emotion crosses his darkened features for just a short second before he seems to process who I am, and he looks truly scared. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and his mouth slightly parted while his whole body is tensed, the strength he exerts on my limb—while not painful, like with Alex—conveys the huge force to his emotion.

And then like a switch being rapidly flicked, he turns angry. Having witnessed this several times before but none of them as intense as this, I gulp and stare dumbly as Harry goes from worried and anxious to absolutely furious in a fraction of a second. The relief briefly revealed in his eyes washes away as the light green of his irises nearly blacken with his barely controlled frustration.

“Where have you been?” He demands roughly, though he can quite clearly see where exactly I am… and in his state, I smartly opt out of telling him of my excursion down the service hallways and how I eavesdropped on his earlier explosion of anger. In fact, my mouth remains slack through the shock of his sudden appearance, and I remain totally stunned with it and his immeasurable amount of fury apparently directed at me. He tears his enraged gaze from my slightly hunched form to the bar, taking in my drink which now lays full and abandoned on the counter top.
If possible, his eyes darken to an even further degree at the sight, appearing to be two small pebbles of coal under the darkness which envelopes The Castle.

“You’ve been drinking,” he states with obvious distaste, cold stare sliding back to glare at me as he shouts over all the noise. It’s also frightening, how easily his deep booming tone overpowers every other sound, no matter how loud. I don’t so much as offer a single nod—should I consider one drink ‘been drinking’? Probably in my lightweight case, but ultimately I settle for chewing on my lip, a little slow and unsure of how to deal with Harry when he is like this. Remaining silent and treading carefully seems to be a better tactic than babbling on about all that has occurred tonight, at least.

His frown deepens further at my silence, my shutting down. His brow pinches and faint worry lines crease his forehead as his lips draw into a firm line, and then without a single warning he hoists me down from the stool without giving me any choice in the matter, his touch migrating from my arm to my waist in a firm hold. He doesn’t let go as I stumble from the sudden, somewhat rough action, not landing on my heels quite right. His capable hands steady me easily.

“Geez, Harry,” I murmur, breaking my short spell of silence though it’s doubtful he even hears my quiet, shaky exclamation, and feel somewhat indignant while I try to right myself on my own. He seems to hear me loud and clear however, because he scoffs at my first uttered words since he found me, my tone seeming to have made him even angrier.

It looks like he hasn’t calmed down a bit since his confrontation with Lucy back in the hallway; I want to groan aloud for having to deal with what appears to be the aftermath.

Maybe in just this isolated case, it might be a better idea in the long run to remain silent. Regardless of how annoyed he may be with my dazed, quiet state, anything I say might just irritate him further.

“You were too busy with that to answer your phone, were you?” He asks rhetorically, all but dragging me away from the bar before I have the time to pay for my drinks. A wave of dismissal from the bartender signals it isn’t too big of a deal, but I still feel bad. The strength he exerts on my upper arm isn’t great, but I simply dislike the hold in general; it makes me feel like a misbehaving child being hauled off by her frustrated parent.

You were busy, too, I think, but keep the comment to myself. A lot might have taken place tonight and my mind may be more of a confused mess than ever but I don’t want to fight with Harry of all people. The accusing tone he uses, though, leaves me with a guilty shameful feeling low in my gut.

“I only had one drink, Harry.” As soon as the truthful sentence leaves my mouth he halts his fast, agitated pace across the club which I found hard to keep up with in my heels and he whirls around, totally unfaltering. The detached though intense look he focusses on my own troubled, shocked expression tells me it was the worst thing I could have possibly said, nostrils flaring as his anger is close to overtaking his senses altogether. I remain stunned into silence as worry begins to tinge my conscience, resembling fear though I don’t allow myself to feel scared of Harry. He might be angry, but he wouldn’t take it out on me. That much is clear just from how he still is careful to keep his hold on me to a bearable level of strength, more like guiding me through the club as if he considers me to be incapable of doing so on my own.

The last time someone looked at me like this, though, was little more than a few days ago when Alex completely lost his mind, and what makes it worse is the clear fact that Harry has never once looked at me in such a way until now. With the temper I know he has and what I just witnessed with my own eyes back in the hallway, I don’t see Harry right now as the man who set me free of nearly every single one of my fears and insecurities—not the man who held me when I was sad because he knew better than anyone else how much I needed it. Instead, I see him as both a man controlled by his anger and one I’m not sure I know like I once thought.

More than anything, the abrupt realization hurts. Alex’s warning suddenly holds more weight in truth than I would ever like it to. Harry has to be the man who swept me clear from my feet and into a brighter, happier, hope-filled life. He has to be.

He opens his mouth, most likely prepared to utter something we might both regret in response to my quiet argument, but with a clench of his jaw he snaps it shut. The darkened green of his irises trail over my all but cowering form in obvious distaste before he turns back around and returns to towing me off somewhere again, his hand slipping down to my wrist, tightening just a little too much for my liking, and I tug on it uselessly in protest. Already bruised from similar treatment by a supposed friend; the last thing I want is for Harry to worsen it. And I know he wouldn’t want that, either. As infuriated as he may be, and to his credit his long fingers curled around the diameter of my wrist are not nearly as harsh as what it took to unearth those unsightly marks present underneath all the makeup. In its already tender sate, however, it feels like his large hand hurts and inflicts more damage than it actually does. Even still, I remain quiet and allow him to bring me upstairs. He doesn’t acknowledge Ty this time as he thunders up the marble steps, and I can’t take my eyes from my feet long enough to send the member of security an apologetic smile because if I do, I fear I might trip and end up crashing straight into the cold, hard steps.

“Slow down, Harry,” I mutter when he tugs on my wrist in an impatient effort to hurry me along, having already fallen back because I can’t keep up with his longer limbs. But the toe of my heel has already caught on the edge of one of the steps, and all I can emit is a small startled gasp in the split second it takes for my upper body to be sent flying forward—surely quite painfully into the stone stairs—but Harry’s quick reflexes kick in and he jerks me up just before I make contact with the floor, his other hand circling around my waist.

“Julia,” he starts, and in my frazzled state it is hard to decipher his tone. Is it apologetic for almost having made me fall, or even more frustrated with my lack of coordination?

As soon as I am steady, I send him a scathing glare and pull my wrist from his hand, stepping to the side to harshly disentangle his other appendage from my waist. At this point I am unthankful for his fast thinking and capable strength, because if he wasn’t in such an angry rush I wouldn’t have had to chance to fall at all… probably. Maybe that one drink, having been so strong to my inexperienced system, went straight to my head more than I initially anticipated. For a small fleeting moment a brief flicker of both concern and remorse passes through his eyes, but I look away out of intimidation and now annoyance, crossing my arms defensively over my front.

In this one transitory second, he resembles more of the Harry I have come to love. As soon as he sees I am okay and not hurt from the near fall I took, he sighs in exasperation and continues up the stairs, shoulders tense and footfalls heavy. After a beat of hesitation I take a deep breath and follow him, wondering if I should at all of if this is even a good idea to be near him when he is not quite in control of his emotions, and I can’t even do anything to calm him down like I would usually try. Heck, he didn’t even slow down after I nearly crashed into the stairs—there isn’t much to try without the possibility of irritating him further. Apparently, I am the cause of all this in the first place.

My wrist hurts more than ever now but the reasonable part of my mind kicks in and tells me it isn’t really Harry’s fault; he doesn’t know I am hurt… though no longer do I feel such a vast sting of guilt over having not told him. As I carefully and slowly—to delay whatever confrontation is coming—ascend the few stairs left, I think about all that has happened and what it could mean. The possibility of Harry being not who I think he is hurts more than anything else. Only now does my heart jolt pitifully in my chest, causing me to recall my plan to tell him everything tonight. But how am I supposed to after this, after what I saw and now that he is so uncontrollably angry?

I don’t look at Harry as my much smaller frame brushes past him through the doors of the room where he left me, where one moment things were wonderful and the next they were gone totally wrong. Where this started. Frustration emanates from his tall, lithe stature like a hot coil ready to burst, though he shuts the door softly and turns the lock with a surprising amount of calmness. With a few meters of distance between us I face his back and cross my arms in an effort to make myself appear as small as possible, intimidated by Harry and all of his anger, concealed just under the surface of his collected exterior. I’m not so naïve to believe it isn’t possible for him to explode—if he is pushed far enough, and he already appears to be on the very edge as it stands. I blink past the slight worry and panic as I realize the snowballing effect each event over the past hour or so has had, creating an avalanche of tension and things left unsaid, held back for all the wrong reasons. Despite everything I still manage to hold onto hope that all of this can be resolved, breathing slow and deep to try and calm my own fitful heart.

Harry turns back around after having paused for a few moments in front of the door, mirroring my own stance although he looks much scarier than I could ever hope to be, his biceps bulging as he folds his arms over his lean chest. A wave of nervous heat crashes through my system at the thought of him being so focussed only on me when he is in such an explosive state. This isn’t the kind of attention I seek from him.

“You left,” he states quietly, accusation souring his velvety smooth, deep tone. With his next simple question, he tries to conceal exactly how intense his fury is at this very second. “Why?”

He blinks, expectant and impatient, and waits for my delayed response. I frown instantly—yes, I left, and am confused as to why he is fixated on this simple fact. Or even why he is so angry with me, anyway. Is it because I broke my promise to stay put while he was gone, or that he found me at the bar? None of this should be so upsetting to him to the point where he felt the need to drag me all the way up here to sort it out, if that is his goal. I’m not even sure of that much.

“You were gone a long time,” I start carefully with what I hope to be a sufficient explanation, aware I could say something that could set Harry off. Which would be the exact opposite of what I want to achieve. I was bored had been on the tip of my tongue before that, but saying as much would be a lie. Too long my mind was stuck, imprisoned in here alone with only my worried thoughts to keep me company, and it looks like all this concern isn’t in vain—I am lucky Vivian came up to get me when she did, or else I might be totally oblivious to all that has taken place tonight. If I had to spend all this time up here alone, I’d have been even more of a mess than what Harry found at the bar by the time he got back.

Even though I am one huge mess right now, too. For a moment I have to wonder if it would have been better, to not know, but quickly push the idiotic thought aside. “And I didn’t want to be here alone.” My rushed, tacked-on sentence is the product of Harry’s further deteriorating mood, his lips having thinned at my earlier explanation as he remained silent. I don’t like when he is silent—I have no idea what he’s thinking.

Earlier the room seemed to have taken on a creepy atmosphere without Harry there to distract me and provide his protective comfort, and it felt like I was sitting in a haunted Victorian mansion rather than a private room at a prestigious night club.

Sighing heavily at my innocent, truthful explanation, Harry runs a hand through his mop of dark curls before speaking quietly again, deeper and with more frustration seeping through. “I told you to stay here, Julia.”

“You did,” I confirm, more confused than ever. “But it wasn’t that big of a deal, Harry. I was with Vivian and…” my voice dies out when I recall my unfortunately timed trip to the bathroom. With so many unvoiced questions I find it impossible to speak at all.

“Really,” he bites out, using a tone so scathing it forces me to take a step backward, placing more painful distance between us. “Because that’s not where you were a minute ago.”

Well, no… but I can hardly delve into what spurred my momentary lapse in judgement or why I even felt as if I needed a drink in the first place. Hurriedly, my exhausted mind tries to come up with a reasonable, truthful explanation for why I was at the bar, but somehow it feels like this isn’t what Harry is really concerned or maddened about. No, he’s angry I left this room at all, and making up excuses isn’t going to solve anything. I don’t know if anything I say right now will get through to him.

The experimental drink doesn’t seem to have done any good, anyway. I still feel as on edge as ever—more so now with Harry so out of character, so mad at me and with no clues as to why. In fact, it perhaps only served to make me feel worse and a little more pathetic than usual. Drinking, as it turns out, is certainly not my game.

“Harry, I don’t understand,” I admit softly, still clutching onto the fleeting hope that tonight is still salvageable, that if I am the one to remain calm, then Harry will see there was nothing to worry about after all. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Because I couldn’t find you!” He bursts, raising his voice so loud it echoes throughout the expansive room and incites a precarious flutter to erupt within my chest. More than ever I wish for the placated, soft-speaking Harry who spent the whole night ensuring I was okay; I want the Harry who kissed my worries away, not the one who added to them. Now, for the first time ever, I feel almost scared of him. On a frustrated huff, he steps forward when I continue to back away, having nearly tripped on my own heels again when he so abruptly yelled.

“I couldn’t find you either,” I offer hopefully, the words trembling slightly though the statement leaves my mouth a little sour. A half-truth—I found him alight, but again… it might not be such a good idea to bring up what occurred down in the hallway, at least right now. If it can be avoided, at least, I want to keep the event to myself for a little longer. Until Harry calms down, if he ever does.
Maybe he will see that we are both ‘even’ in headaches and worries over one another tonight.

Harry’s jaw jumps at my half-hearted argument, however, clearly unimpressed. Though he physically resembles my Harry, he doesn’t at all sound or act like him right now. “That may be so, but I told you I was coming back. I panicked when I came up here and couldn’t find you anywhere, Julia, and you weren’t with Vivian. You didn’t have to leave.”

“And you also said you’d only be gone for a minute. I texted you,” I shoot back, growing frustrated with his lack of listening and not being the rational one out of the two of us. Belatedly I realize I should have messaged him to let him know I wouldn’t have been where he left me, and then this whole mess might have been avoided totally. And to top that off, I didn’t even answer my phone when he called me at the bar. Crap.

Still, though, Harry is making a huge deal out of something as relatively small as a misunderstanding, and it feels like much less in comparison to what I have weighing on my mind. Obviously, a huge piece of the puzzle is still missing. Before he has the chance to speak and argue further judging by the darkened, fiery green of his eyes, I rush out another quick sentence. “You were gone for so long, and I… I didn’t feel comfortable waiting here.”

“This is my club. Nothing here is a danger to me, but it might be to you. You should not have gone off by yourself.” He pushes off his own discretions, and I feel my inner temperature rise by several degrees in frustration.

“I wasn’t by myself,” I press, defensively. For but a few moments I was alone, and it wasn’t anywhere close to a serious situation. I was at a bar, for crying out loud. Harry narrows his eyes dangerously, stopping with only a couple feet from where I halt and stand my ground. He may be simmering and masking his anger well, but I at least know how he can be when in this state. Though furious, he’s still trying not to take it out on me… and failing.

“Don’t lie to me,” he all but growls. Hostility wafts from his body as if it is a tangible scent, his much larger stature towering over me. I blink back angry, desperate tears and stare at him blankly. “You were at the bar, drinking. Do you know what kind of trouble a girl like you find yourself in here, alone and drunk?”

“I’m not drunk. Would you listen to me? I just…” I can’t say anything more, unable to explain why I did anything since he disappeared, and a frustrated sigh escapes through my mouth at the realization. More overwhelmed than ever, I swivel around and cup my face in my hands, fighting tears I don’t want Harry to witness. “Can we please just forget about this?” I ask, desperate saddened emotion showing through in each word, and I already know the answer. It’s impossible for Harry to let conflict like this go, and we are going to have to battle it out until we both come to some form of agreement.

Or not.

“Don’t turn away from me,” he snaps, appearing to have not heard my quiet plea, and I freeze at the sound of his thunderous long strides as he approaches, tense and anticipating his next move. For a second, I almost expect him to handle me as roughly as Alex did last week.
He doesn’t. The force he applies to my hip to turn my body back around to face him is minimal, and I breathe an inward sigh of relief at the reassurance that Harry wouldn’t dare to intentionally hurt me, not even while in an incensed state. In reality it is foolish for me to fear him even for a brief, uncertain moment, but his natural intimidating aura coupled with being so angry left me with little other choice.

When I hesitantly glance at him, timid and wary of his temper, the hard glint in his eyes softens slightly. But only slightly, and it’s obvious he is far from over whatever it is I have done wrong in his eyes. “I was worried,” he admits softly—with an edge that sounds so foreign coming from him. I don’t want him to be angry with me, not for something I don’t understand or am able to fix.

Tonight is unraveling at the seams I so carefully tried to construct, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“When you weren’t here and you wouldn’t answer your phone, I… thought something might have happened.” With his confession, albeit muttered begrudgingly, it allows all the missing pieces to fall into place, and suddenly I understand where all of his anger for me is coming from, not just an aftereffect of whatever confrontation he had with Lucy. Just like at the baseball game when he nearly jumped those few unruly fans in result of me being hurt while he could do nothing to stop it from happening. All of this stems from his inherent protective nature, seemingly so fierce for me that it overpowers any of his other emotions. A lot like me, he doesn’t know how to deal with it, and instead is expressing it through anger.

“I was worried about you too,” I feel the need to reply in hopes of letting him know I understand. Bravely, I reach forward to try and caress the tension from his toned arm, wishing I could soothe all of his worry away. If nothing else, hopefully relating to him will come as a comfort, calm him down, like he has done so many times for me. He blinks slowly, as if he can’t comprehend another person might be concerned over his own wellbeing, and I keep my fingers, lightly tracing the inside of his elbow, right where they are. “You were gone longer than you said you’d be, and I started to think something might have happened to you. And I couldn’t just stay in here and wait around, Harry—”

My gentle explanation is cut short right as I’m about to tell him of what I witnessed down in the hallway because his temper reignites, and the last of the air held within my lungs is expelled in a quiet gasp as Harry’s hands connect with my upper arms to push me back until I can’t go any farther, spine in abrupt contact with a wall.

“No, Julia,” he barks out, but within his harsh reprimand there is a touch of wavering desperation, such raw emotion I have never witnessed in Harry quite like this. I stare up at him, wide eyed and jaw slackened, both shocked and terrified by how fast and easily his strength was used to overthrow my own. “I am more than capable of handling myself. You don’t worry about me.”

Rather than argue stubbornly about my being a mature woman who can do and go where she pleases like the bull-headed part of my mind wants to, I bite my lips together and resist the urge to touch him again, afraid it might only set him off again.

“Harry, please try to understand,” I all but beg, fearful his anger reach a peak higher than the self-control he has always exercised can handle, that he might do something we would both regret. Not knowing what else to do, I got out on my very last limb and pose my next question with an wealth of hesitation—because knowing Harry, he won’t want to answer me, and I am well aware of his hands still holding my arms against the wall. Like when he took me upstairs, however, his grasp is not painful but firm still, allowing none of his anger to spill over into his far superior strength. “Where did you go, anyway?”

Harry mutely shakes his head, letting me go to brace his hands on either side of my shoulders. The action brings him even closer to me in his incensed frame of mind, and while intimidating as hell, I hold my ground. If he levels with me, tells me what kept him away for so long, then I would be willing to forget any of this even happened. We could go back to how we were just an hour ago, oblivious as we were so caught up in each other nothing else mattered. That’s what we are—so cheesily and wonderfully in love. Desperately, I want to go back to that.

“Don’t worry about me,” he repeats, disregarding my question though his shoulders noticeably tense.

“Just tell me where you were, Harry, and I’ll stop worrying,” I say softly, hope draining by the second from the hard look which coats the normally beautiful green of his eyes.

He abruptly pushes himself away from the wall and turns around, sighing in resignation. “I had some business to take care of.”

The answer doesn’t explain anything—a cop out, and I never thought I would ever see Harry act this way. Having grown used to him being so open and blunt about everything from his intentions with me to simple things like what he had for breakfast the other day, this throws me for a loop more than anything. This, I don’t know how to help.

“What kind of business?” I press, aware I am pushing his already stretched limits.

“Why are so interested in my work all of the sudden?” He twists back around to face me, a hard mask having taken over his striking features, and it makes him utterly impossible to read. Leaning faintly against the wall, I shakily cross my arms again and try hard to appear unfazed by his act of withdrawal. In reality, behind the façade not nearly as well constructed as Harry’s I am very close to breaking down. Between his inexplicable sudden burst of anger and evasive answers, I don’t recognize the man in front of me. Feeling all fight and sense of reason leave me, I sigh and decide to willingly tell the truth. For once, and something he apparently doesn’t want to do himself. Before the admission even leaves my mouth, I tense in anticipation.

“I saw you.”

The reaction I already saw coming is instantaneous—his eyes narrow, he takes an infuriated step forward and all but snarls his reply. “What?”

From the way he asks the one sharp question, it would most likely be for the better to just drop the whole thing, but I am so confused and now saddened. There must be a deeper reason, in the bigger picture, for why he is acting this way, and I have a feeling it might have to do with what happened down in the hallway. The anger Harry projects seems like way too much over something as small as my worrying over him or breaking a simple promise to be here when he got back earlier. There is something more, and it’s unclear whether he wants it exposed tonight.

But I do. I want us both to be truthful with each other, and it will be hard for me to do that with the possibility he mightn’t be doing the same in return. Regardless, I don’t want to let the issue sit, to play on both our minds long after it is brushed aside until one of us bursts. Again.

“After I went downstairs with Vivian,” I say, feeling the need to explain I didn’t really spend all my time at the bar. “Perrie and I went to the bathroom, and when I came out… I heard you… down in the hallway.”

A wide array of emotion flits across Harry’s features so quickly I can hardly process even one of them, and I find it hard to even look straight at his imposing figure anyhow. At first I believe he doesn’t even react, remaining silent, but it is surprisingly easy to see the transition of shock morphing into concern and then finally a boiling anger as soon as he comprehends my hesitant explanation.

With a heavy sigh, Harry shakes his head as he stares at my frozen self standing feet away from him, darkened eyes blank. “So what? Are you spying on me now?” There is a deceptively playful, light edge to his tone, but one would have to be a fool not to detect the multiplied anger lurking just underneath the thin exterior of his composure. He speaks to me like he did with the girl not long ago downstairs, and the correlation hurts.

“What has gotten into you?” I ask, offended now, and am unable to help the hurts which seeps through in every syllable. It physically pains me to look at Harry, to realize there is no saving this night now, and he has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to.

If this were no more than a few months ago I would have fled, left in the wake of so much damage having been done. But now the thought of leaving when things are so tense and feel plain wrong hurts almost as much as it does to look at him. I am used to parting from Harry with murmured compliments and sweet kisses, not thick tensions and shouted words of anger.

Predictably, he doesn’t reply. It is as if he doesn’t even hear my insecure inquiry. “Just tell me, Harry. What happened? Why are you so upset?”

“You don’t need to be so concerned about me. I was—and am—fine,” he says, clipped and sounding as if he doesn’t have time for this. For me.

With a clenched jaw, I bravely stand my ground. This is new; Harry’s go-it-alone attitude taken to a new level which I wasn’t even aware existed until now. “I’m concerned, Harry, because I—” my mouth snaps shut as soon as I almost utter three words which are so true, yet are so wrong to be admitted in a moment like this. But it is still true. I love Harry, and I don’t even have the time to process such a huge revelation. I ultimately settle for something a little less shocking. “I care about you. So of course I’m concerned.”

Shaking his head, he remains inert and silent, as if refusing to believe someone other than himself could be concerned for his wellbeing and state of mind. It only ends up making me angry, too. After all this time has passed and we have grown so irreversibly close, how can he possibly believe I don’t care about him? More than anything, I wish to go back to how things were not an hour ago. When things were so easy—I always knew Harry could have an explosive temper when provoked, but tonight of all nights I didn’t expect to have any of this happen. “And you clearly aren’t fine. I’ve said that line enough times to know when someone is lying when they say it, Harry. Please, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

When his hard front doesn’t falter in the slightest, I know my best efforts have gone to waste. Like I have done so many times myself, Harry has shut down on me. Now I don’t even feel it is half as important to bring up the girl he pushed against the wall as I did before he found me at the bar. It all seems so inconsequential, and perhaps it is because I’m only now realizing we might have problems that run far deeper than witnessing an angered, mysterious confrontation. I just want it to disappear from my memory.

Seconds tick by, as if we are both in a stand-off and neither of us will make the first move. I’m not about to lie down and let Harry hurt by himself, but there is only so far I can push. He swallows, tilting his chin down to peer at me with an equally indistinguishable expression.

“I let you have your secret,” he decides, having suddenly lost the hard edge he adopted not long ago, and looks more vulnerable than ever. However, any progress we might have made is destroyed with what he says next. “Let me have mine.”

A hard, strangling gasp in sucked in through my mouth, but it feels like none of the oxygen reaches my lungs. With an excruciating ache in my heart I turn away, tripping over my own feet again, and the tears I held in all night spring free in a rushing surge down my cheeks.

Hardly able to see anything through my watery, blurred vision I scramble toward the door, away from Harry and the words still pelting ruthlessly at my already guilty conscience, totally unthinking in each step I take yet my mind is left in a whirling, disjointed mess. If nothing else, I’m sure of one fact: Harry isn’t as okay with our arrangement as he let on, not at all. And now, with tonight’s events piling on top of the stunning revelation, I can’t handle it all at once. My heart lurches in that painful way I have come to fear, accelerating quicker than a rocket propelled grenade. All this time I thought he was okay with waiting, and now he’s using it to his advantage, throwing it in my face.

“No, Julia,” he calls sharply, his footsteps gaining on my shaking form as I near the door. This only causes my panic, brought about by immense pain and the realization that nothing in my life is as it seemed, to increase. “Let me finish. That isn’t what I meant.”

“You made yourself perfectly clear, Harry.” I try to snap my response as my shivering hands fumble with the lock, but some of my words get lost in a poorly restrained, choked sob. His potent presence can easily be felt right behind me, as if I could be aware of Harry even with miles upon miles worth of distance between us, and the thought of how absolutely special and needed he has become for me only serves to make my cries come harder and faster. This is all my worst fears coming to life in one disastrous moment, one I predicted months ago but made myself ignorant to the possibility.

Harry proved tonight that he is just like everyone else. And it isn’t even his fault, really—I couldn’t have expected for him to be completely fine with keeping secrets in our relationship, but I was so close to finally telling him. To having all of this behind us… but now, accomplishing that much is impossible, because Harry has secrets too. Secrets he doesn’t want to tell me either.

“Listen to me,” he demands, his deep voice resonating in my ears, and he grabs hold of my arm with a desperate, crushing force to turn my unwilling body around to face him.

The sharp pain above my wrist only causes me to gasp again, a whimper involuntarily pushing up from my throat. Harry stills at the sound and I stare up at him lifelessly, the only evidence of my reaction to his harsh words is my puffy eyes and tears still flowing freely. His eyes instantly travel from mine to where he holds onto my arm so tight in his clenched fist. It seems as if his anger totally deflates in wake of the shock of what he’s done and is replaced with remorse, hold loosening until he touches my wrist delicately with a tender touch, caressing the already damaged skin. I bite my lip to keep a disheartened cry from escaping again, all of his actions tonight a total whirlwind. To me, he left as one Harry and returned as a completely different one, and this is the result.

My eyes blankly take nothing in as I train them on his shirt, the one I tugged up not long ago to feel more of his addictive responses to my touch, and it takes a moment to realize his actions have ceased altogether once again as he turned my wrist over, thumbs halting their soothing massage. In fact, I don’t really take notice until his sharp tone breaks me from my hazy trance.

“What the fuck is this?”

His stunned, harsh demand jolts my heart until it is beating so fast I almost fear I might have a heart attack, and the shuddery contractions don’t lessen any even as a thick silence ensues.

Harry doesn’t look away from my arm. I know without looking myself what he sees—the only outward evidence of what occurred with Alex last week. Throughout the night the make-up must have worn off, and now it is on full display. He is so still I don’t even see the rise and fall of his chest or a sign he is alive, eyes fixated on the one thing I have tried to actively hide from him since we came to our agreement. When he doesn’t speak again, I reluctantly glance down to where he holds my arm, his grip now much gentler than it was just moments ago in the heat of all the frustration and hurt. Right now I’m not concerned about the bruises he is only now catching sight of—it is in the past, and I am tired of dwelling on it.

“It’s nothing,” I say, soft, and attempt to tug my hand from his grasp. He only pulls it back as soon as I make the slight, jerky movement, his hold appearing to be firmer than I originally thought.

“These are finger prints,” he correctly observes, ignoring my protest with a steadily darkening tone. By the second, I can quite literally feel Harry’s anger rekindle, but his abrupt concern doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make up for what has already been said. “I didn’t do this, did I.”

He doesn’t pose it as a question—with perhaps just now being the exception, Harry has always handled me with a delicacy I found both adorable and endearing, so unlike his tough ‘bad boy’ exterior. I don’t reply to his statement, my body angled toward the door even though I heartbreakingly still feel the unmistakable magnetic pull to him… even after what he said. After he broke his promise… I still love him, and he doesn’t even know I ever did in the first place. He doesn’t know how very close I was to telling him, had he only waited a minute longer.

“Who did this to you?” He hisses, no longer yelling but each word is spoken with a deadly, articulate resoluteness. Now his barely contained anger isn’t directed toward me, though it doesn’t help me feel any better. The physical pain Alex caused me is nothing compared to the damage Harry inflicted with his verbal lashing. I flinch away when he brings his free hand up to cup my chin, undoubtedly to force my gaze upward to meet his own. Usually I would welcome his comforting touch, but now I cringe away. Ignoring the hurt which crosses his features as best I can, a plume of stinging pain travels down the length of my spine as I try to sink backward into the door, its wooden frame digging into my back even through the thick velvet curtains.

“It doesn’t matter.” I say, listless, exhausted.

“Yes it does,” he fires back immediately, fury resurfacing as quickly as it vanished. “Who the hell touched you like this? Was it that little shit of a co-worker? Who?”

Resigned to tonight’s fate and what has already unfolded, never to be undone, I glance up to Harry with dim, unseeing eyes, and brace myself for the hurt I am about to cause even myself. “Well I guess this is just another one of my secrets then, isn’t it?”

Unsteadily, I wrench my arm from his hold—causing and adding to the pain myself—and manage to unlock the door in a split second. It feels as if I take a physical blow to the gut, totally winded, as soon as the harsh sentence leaves my mouth. Harry stands stunned in the doorway when I stumble back out into the chaotic atmosphere of the club, not unlike my racing thoughts and conflicted emotions. He shouts for me to come back but doesn’t dare to touch me like he did after having discovered the awful, discoloured marks on the underside of my wrist. And while he pleads with me to come back, I know he doesn’t really mean it. Indeed, he showed me how he truly feels. The demand for even more secrets kept, my own used against me, is enough to show how he truly feels.

In one night, I realized I loved Harry and then quite possibly lost him.

He didn’t let me go. I didn’t pull back, recede into the hollow shell I was before we met by myself. This wasn’t a decision made in my haste to live a lonely life by myself. No—

He pushed me away.

Notes

Wow. How long has it been? You don't need to verbally berate me, I know I'm a terrible updater for this. It's been two freaking weeks, the longest I have ever gone without updating. I want to apologize first and foremost, because I love you all and hate to make you wait when you are all so kind to me.

From fighting off the last of that nasty cold to be being busy as hell working in retail during Easter holidays, I haven't had much of a chance to edit this chapter. But it's here, and I hope its length will make up for the wait :)

So! Excuses are over with. What do you think? Harry's reaction to just about everything tonight was intense... the reasons behind it all are still up in the air, right? Haha, I hope so at least. What do you think of how Julia handled all of it? Personally I think she was surprisingly calm and level-headed through it all, until she couldn't take it any longer. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this... is it Harry's or Julia's fault? A mixture of both?

Let me know! Love you! xx