Soon, I am situated cozily in Harry’s car after he opened the passenger door for me and helped me inside, all but lowering me down into the seat himself. The tenses muscles in my shoulders begin to relax some, but not quite all the way, because I start to recall fuzzy memories of the moments before I lost consciousness. A feeling of dread begins to spread through my abdomen before I stop myself, refusing to go down that terrifying path again. Sometimes just thinking about past experiences can throw me into the moment as if I am reliving it, painfully.

Warm fingers brush over my hand and then lace through my own thinners ones, helping to pull me out of my mind further. I look up from my lap to see Harry watching me, the car started but motionless, his eyes soft as he observes my condition.

“Relax,” he instructs gently. This, I find, isn’t quite as totally impossible as it felt when I was sat on Vivian’s sofa both before and after the attack, stewing in my own anxiety and fear of all the unknowns.

Now that Harry is here with me, now that he is holding my hand and we have almost totally reconciled—a world of weight feels like it has been lifted from my chest. He lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles tenderly. Tendrils of pure shock shoot down my arm from the contact, and it brings me just that little bit more comfort to allow me to settle back into the seat with a soft sigh, smiling at him drowsily. All of the sudden I feel incredibly tired, and my vision blurs in a curious manner. But I attribute this to the exhaustion from today’s events finally taking their full toll on my body, as can only be expected. Every joint aches from tension, and they only hurt more now that they are relaxed.

“I’ll try,” I murmur in reply, smiling still. Right now, things feel okay. Harry makes me feel okay. Even when everything else isn’t, and I should be crying and stressed and too upset to function. Harry makes everything better.

“Just relax.” His lips brush against my hand as he speaks, repeating his soft order, and he gives the bumps of my knuckles one last kiss before returning my hand to my lap so he can momentarily take control of the gearshift.

Before long, we are smoothly pulling out from the parking garage and merging into the early evening traffic. His eyes remain intense and trained on the road, but as soon as we are on the freeway, his hand returns to hold mine in my lap.

Any other occasion the way my eyes droop and feel as if they’re being weigh downed would scare me, because of what has already happened today, but right now I welcome it, having not felt this kind of peace in so, so long. Despite everything—despite having my home broken into, robbed and trashed, despite my father’s rings being gone and are most likely never to return, and despite fainting in front of Harry… today has been a total whirlwind, one I can’t even begin to process, and in spite of it all the simplicity of Harry just being here with me, for me, is the one thing that keeps me going and grounded.

“Thank you,” I continue to smile sleepily, somewhat unaware of what I am saying in my half-asleep state, just that I have to verbalize my intense feelings for him somehow. For a moment the only sound in the car is the ticking of the turn signal as Harry makes a pass. The straight stretch of road we are on is welcomed over the constant sharp turns and sudden stops required to be made in the busy streets of Chicago. This way, my head doesn’t spin quite as much, and it brings me one step closer to dozing off completely, content for the first time today with my hand in Harry’s.

“What for?” He inquires lightly, though it is easy to tell his curiosity has been piqued. From the way I slouch in the seat, turned at a comfortable angle to face him, he’s most likely aware of my being totally out of it, and is choosing to entertain my tired, cluttered thoughts. It takes me another moment to remember what I was on about exactly, with my gratitude, if anything at all.

Stifling a yawn, head resting contentedly against the back of the seat, I focus on his hand in my lap. “For not giving up on me.”

I feel his eyes on me, but I am too tired and maybe too timid to look up. I settle for resting my other hand on top of his.

“Don’t thank me,” he rejects, quietly so as not to rouse me too much. “I could never give up on you. I…”

Curiously he leaves the sentence hanging in the peaceful silence between us, and I hold onto consciousness for a little bit longer, waiting for him to continue for several more moments before my tired impatience pokes through. Now he has me baited, waking up slightly in anticipation for whatever he was about to say. It’s not often he refuses to express himself, and not do so in a crystal clear manner. “Hmm?”

“I care about you,” he concludes, but it feels like something remains left unsaid. The emotion he emits in those simple words gives me the impression he would like to say much more—a feeling I know all too well. “And I won’t give up on you. Ever.”

For some reason, this leaves a lasting impression. Over the years people discarding me has been an occurrence I’ve come to accept. Growing up, after Dad and the discovery of our shared disorder, I became distant, wary, afraid to lose any one else. Yet still I lost them—I lost Caleb long before he died, to his addiction. Other people came, from school, neighbours, friends I used to have in New York before the move. Before my disorder. But it was inevitable we lost touch after I refused to let them close, to learn what made me so withdrawn.

My life was such an uncertain mess that I refused to let anyone see past my hardened, quiet exterior. And I have come to be so used to losing people, that hope was a thing seldom felt. I got used to my lonely existence, even came to take comfort in it.

Because I was and still am this way to a certain degree, not a whole lot of people have stuck around to try and see past the walls I raise so high. To date, Vivian has been my only lasting friend, and no one has ever attempted to break through my barriers, see me for who I truly am like Harry. Never like Harry—nobody compares to him, to the level of raw attraction that transpired between us the moment we met eyes, and then developed into so, so much more. And when I threw all my issues in his face he didn’t even blink. He was absolutely out of his mind to give me a chance when I did not deserve one, when I continually showed him exactly how much I didn’t deserve that chance.

But through all that has happened I am so happy that he did. That he might have temporarily lost his marbles when we first began dating to put up with as much as he did.

These last months, he’s been my one steady rock. Albeit a rock that short circuits my nerve endings with a simple touch and someone who affects me like no other, but a rock nonetheless.

A rock that I desperately yearned for, but have been too afraid to succumb to everything that makes him so wonderful. Just because I have been so afraid that, like everyone else, he was going to give up on me too. But he didn’t. Not once. And now he is here telling me that he won’t ever.

I have no idea how I landed myself such a perfect, understanding, beautiful man, but I will never quite get past it.

We don’t even need the radio on, the light silence between us easy and peaceful. So much more needs to be said, but I am so tired and the opportunity of sleep has finally presented itself, that it is hard to pass up.

“I would never give up on you either, you know.” This time I speak practically through a yawn.

“Oh yeah?” he questions, amused.

My confirmation is immediate. “No matter what.”

“Good,” he squeezes my hand gently, busy thumb beginning to pick up its mesmerizing pattern of circles into the back of my palm. “Because I can’t live without you.”

With those words to lull me off and the feeling of my hand secure in his, I drift into the most restful sleep I’ve had in weeks. Since I left. Finally, it feels like I can take a deep, tranquil breath, and I willingly close my eyes for the first time all day.

***

When I wake up, slowly, and not with a disoriented, frightful jump like I have experienced far too often lately from my nights spent alone, I can’t help but to smile as I stir slightly, feeling Harry’s hand still in mine and hear the soft but powerful purr of his car’s engine. No, I couldn’t have been out for too long, but the brief nap feels like it has done me a world of good. An unrelenting ache remains present at the back of my head, as can only be expected, though now I find it easier not to focus so much on the pain. A few relaxing minutes pass while I remain at rest, eyes shut, and listen to the sound of passing traffic. No longer does the sun warm my skin through the windshield.

We could drive all night and I would be content, just sitting here with Harry. For now none of today’s worries cross my mind—well, they do, but I realize there is nothing that can be done but to heal, to move on, to fix what is broken. Harry has this effect on me. He is here for me, after everything, and I don’t worry any more than I already have over my father’s rings.

Harry said he would get them back. And if we don’t, as painful as the possibility is, it will be easier to cope while knowing that someone else understands exactly how much it means to me. With this reassurance, I slowly open my eyes and stretch in my seat through a small yawn, and from the corner of my eye I catch Harry glance over at me affectionately.

“Hi,” comes my soft greeting, even though I know it can’t have been more than fifteen minutes since I fell into the light slumber.

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he all but purrs, glancing over to me with his mouth upturned. But his smile, for some reason, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Still only half awake, I try to understand this as I squint against the sun, which has only just begun to set near the horizon. Not much could have possibly changed in such a small amount of time, not while Harry was driving and I was out. Not when things feel like they should be okay, or better at the very least. He seems tense almost in how he grips the steering wheel, arm straight and fingers clenching just a little too tight.

“I needed that,” I admit, referring to my impromptu nap after I decided not to dwell too much on what could be wrong. Conscious of a possible issue, I remain otherwise quiet, but observant. Perhaps when we get home I will gently—without any pressure—ask him how he is feeling.

It takes a few minutes to totally find my bearings; for some time the streets pass by in a mindless blurred cacophony of the city’s usual sights and sounds. The street lights have just turned on, and there aren’t as many cars on the road as there were not long ago, most of the daily commuters long home. Enjoying their families or whatever it is they look forward to when the day is said and done.

For me, that is Harry. He is the light amidst all the darkness that used to encompass my life. He has been, ever since we met. He drew me from my bleakness and into his light. He showed me how to live, and how to love.

I feel warmer, not half as shaky, and I don’t know whether to attribute it to his comforting presence or the climate controlled atmosphere of his car. Being aware of my surroundings is what clues me in, finally, to my next realization. That while we are off the freeway and in the general direction of where we were supposed to be going, we are long past Harry’s apartment. I furrow my eyebrows as I frown in confusion, not quite understanding yet, and for a moment I at least try to rationalize that maybe he is simply taking a different route than the one I am used to—because, after all, I can probably count on two hands how many times I have been to his place. It’s sad, really, how much it was avoided, when he has such a beautiful home, and since we spent our first night together there.

In subdued curiosity, I glance over to him once or twice over the next few minutes, unable to help the questions wanting to spill over. The setting sun crosses over his form, making him appear to glow with his light tan, his hair appearing shinier and silkier than ever. He’d slipped on a pair of black wayfarers, and it proves difficult to read his expression beyond the fact that he is no longer smiling, face an emotionless mask. Keeping his eyes on the road, I suspect that he is very aware of my innocent stare.

It’s not as though I am being discreet about it, but Harry always seems to know whenever I even attempt to glance at him, and when he catches me in the act—usually—he playfully picks at me until he leaves me blushing and embarrassed in the absolute best way possible.

“Where are we?” I eventually break the silence that settled over us shortly after waking up, sounding more out of it than I feel. It isn’t that I don’t know where we are, exactly, it’s that I just don’t know why we aren’t at his place by now.

He frowns, and my surprise is warranted when I don’t receive an answer straight away, and especially when his hand disappears from underneath mine, moving to hold the steering wheel in a firm grip. This doesn’t make very much sense to me at this moment, Harry usually being the talkative, open one, yet today it has felt like I’ve been trying to pull teeth just to get a simple answer out of him.

“Harry?”

An uneasy feeling sweeps over me again, overtaking the drowsy calm I earlier found so easily in his presence. What’s wrong?

Worriedly, and perhaps a little obsessively, I wrack my mind for everything I said and did today, something wrong. Or wrong that hasn’t been apologized for and made right… since we left Vivian’s. I told him that I wouldn’t leave—was that not what he wanted to hear? And then, before falling asleep, I thanked him for not giving up on me.

If any of that was an issue for Harry, he would have brought it about. I know this for a fact. So what could it be?

Maybe he has had some time to think and maybe he regrets this. Us. Maybe he regrets not giving up on me, and I made him see that just now. Today. By opening my mouth, I might have made him realize just how huge of a mistake he has made.

“We’re past your place,” I say again, talking so I don’t feel the hysteria begin to creep back in quite as much. What is happening? Where the hell is he going?

Another minute passes, and just when it feels logical to believe that he might be circling back to drop me off at Vivian’s again, to call it quits once and for all—which is absurd, because we are travelling in the total opposite direction—he finally answers, sort of.

His voice is hoarse as he murmurs the vague, delayed reply. “You could have a concussion.”

“I’m…” I am about to apologize, really only half listening, about to burst into a speech about exactly how much I love him in an effort to make him stay.

I was going to take a page from his book; when Harry really wants something, he uses business, car salesmen-esque tactics to sell whatever it is that he wants so much. Without fail, too, it always works for him. But my reasons, though invalid still, would not be good enough. Then I really listen to what he said, head hurting in the short pause as I am briefly unable to figure out what he is implying.

You could have a concussion. Yes, the possibility is real, but from our moment in the elevator I thought I had assured him that I would be okay. I thought we were going home.

I stare straight ahead, unblinking and breathing temporarily stalled, as a frigid splash of renewed panic washes over me.

In my peripheral vision I see Harry glance at me once, knowing that my mind has worked out exactly what he meant. My sudden lapse into silence after being plagued with questions makes it very obvious as to how much I understand, how much this freaks me out.

The hospital.

We’re going to the hospital.

As soon as the word, the place, registers as even a possibility, my breathing picks up until it comes slow and difficult to even inhale. Now that the destination is known, the route becomes familiar, having traveled it many times as a child after moving to Chicago with Grandma, my disorder still being newly uncovered. Even now I use Mercy Medical Center for the yearly tests my doctor requires me to take.

The familiarity doesn’t help me calm down, however. Quit the opposite; not only have hospitals in general always scared me more than ever because of all the terrible things that happen there, but this one in particular is painful to even pass by.

It’s the same hospital where Caleb was pronounced dead.

To avoid ever going there since then, I even skipped my last regular tests several months ago. Now I have to go back—and with Harry—because I fainted. Because of my heart. All of this is too much at once, too much to face, because I would have to face it alone. He doesn’t know about any of this, any of the thoughts running wild through my mind. And since he is saying absolutely nothing, I know he decided this long ago. Heck, he never intended on going home instead after all. He most likely just allowed me to think we were, so he could get me into the car and to the hospital without a fight. Likewise, nothing I could possibly think to say to him right now would sway him even slightly or change his mind, ten times as stubborn as I am on my best day.

Not long after he told me what was happening—minutes, maybe, but they all blend together and time feels like it passes painfully slowly—we end up in Mercy’s main parking lot, close to the emergency doors.

With my nerves totally shot, I don’t move even after Harry turns off the car and his hands, which had been continuously flexing around the steering wheel, lower to his lap briefly, unbuckling his seatbelt.

I stay locked in mine, refusing to look at him. His hands are only idle for a moment before he reaches over to gently place one of them on my thigh. His long fingers span nearly all the way across my leg, and I ignore the onset of tingles his touch sends through my body, chewing my lip and feeling sicker than I did when I woke up just after fainting.

I tense under his touch, however, otherwise unmoving, and he sighs. This sound somewhat brings me from my shocked, reeling stupor, and only enough to ask more questions, or try to at least. This time, each word I utter is lined with hurt. I feel as if he lied to me.

“I thought… I thought, you said…”

It’s difficult to articulate anything at all, but Harry, as I can always count on, understands.

“I didn’t say anything,” he denies, without a single emotion seeping through in his carefully numbed tone. It hurts me, for him to not even listen to me when I am so scared, but I know that he is scared too. Because of what happened today, he has surely felt more fear than I would ever want him to, so it’s hard to even be angry with him as was my initial instinct. “You asked to go home. I didn’t say when we would.”

That’s the kind of trick a parent would pull on their misbehaving, upset child to keep them momentarily cam. And to Harry, I am sure that’s what I resemble. Someone who is immaturely making a fuss over a simple hospital visit. But that’s because he doesn’t understand—he doesn’t understand because he has no idea, because I still haven’t told him.

And sitting where we are right now, it feels like there’s a greater chance of me throwing up than there is of me finally telling him.

“I’m not going in there.” My soft, timid refusal is accompanied by the shake of my head. This small action is the most I have moved since I woke up and discovered his true intentions.

“Why not?”

“I can’t go in there.”

He sighs again, and his thumb begins to move in that hypnotic manner against the outside of my thigh. I would be a fool to deny how much comfort his touch gives me, but I can’t allow that to show through. There’s a desolate note in the soft expelling of his breath, and I feel even worse. “Do it for me.”

The request is rough and quiet, like he wants to just carry me straight out of the car and toss me into the hospital already. His patience with me is never-ending, however, and he doesn’t move an inch. Still, neither of us look at each other. It’s as though we know we will both cave once we look into each other’s eyes—once we realize how much this is hurting the both of us.

Subconsciously, my hand reaches up to grab hold of the door’s arm rest, just below the lever, for support. Support that cannot be found, as my one form of indisputable comfort is sitting next to me, and I have never seen him like this. Angry, trying his absolute hardest not to take it out on me, though it almost feels like he doesn’t care. I know the truth is quite the opposite; Harry cares about me. He cares about my safety, health, everything, and he believes this is what’s right. And it is, it is. It’s just me screwing everything up again that gets in the way.

He watches me, gaze hard and narrowing from my obviously suspicious movement toward the door, and we both catch fleeting glimpses of each other through the corner of our eyes. While I have no plan of leaving him here, especially after I explicitly promised not to ever again, the premise of getting out for just a moment from this tense atmosphere is a tempting one.

“You don’t understand.”

My lacking explanation, however, is what it takes for a crack to form in the patient though unfeeling mask Harry donned while I dozed off next to him. He releases a heated breath, a sound of long-awaited frustration, but not a sound of surrender. It’s clear he will not give up on this, on me.

Now I wish that I had stayed awake. So I wouldn’t have been so oblivious for as long as I was, and that maybe I could have talked him out of the decision before we were right in front of the freaking hospital. But he’s already settled his stubborn mind on it, and there was never any getting through to him anyway, not really. Harry’s tenacity is what has in part gotten him as far as he is in the business world, and the trait shows itself time and time again in our relationship.

Usually in good ways, in the end, but there are those scattered times, briefly—for me—they seem bad.

No, no. I can’t have this conversation with him in the middle of the hospital’s parking lot. I had it planned so much better in my head. Maybe after one of our adventurous dates or when we are at home, relaxed, peaceful. When things in all other parts of our lives are stable.

Right now, they are anything but.

I can’t.

“Why not?” he asks, and I realize I might have said it aloud.

Something in me breaks just now, much like what occurred with Harry back in the elevator. There’s only a certain point I can come to before things become too much to bear. For me, that has already happened today, numerous times. And I can’t handle any more. It is upon the realization that I can’t say anything without it needing an explanation, without having to tell him the total truth, that I break totally. A tear streaks down my cheek, but my hand doesn’t move from the door to wipe it away, my head turned so Harry can’t catch the true extent of my weakness.

While I thought I was weeks ago, I don’t know if I am ready to tell him now. After all that has taken place today, it’s unclear how much more he can take, and I can’t handle losing him. Not today. Not after I just got him back.

Not ever.

“I just can’t!” I burst. Somehow now to my over reactive self it feels like this is an ultimatum: tell him everything now, or lose him forever. As if in an aftershock of my own hysteria rearing its head, I instantly steal a look at Harry as soon as I all but shout, and catch his jaw jump in building irritation.

And I can’t take it any longer. I feel like I’m about to suffocate. Without thinking, my hand shoots to throw open the car door, too upset to realize what I am doing.

But Harry does. My fingers hardly get the chance to skim over the handle, and as quick as lightning he reaches over to catch my hand, door only slightly ajar from my rash movements. His other hand holds tight to my other, which migrated to unbuckle my seatbelt at the same time for a quick getaway.

“No, you’re staying here,” he booms. “You’re not leaving this car, not if you think you’re going anywhere but in there.”

I puff out a hard breath and settle back in the seat, Harry unbearably close to me as he leans over the center console and glares, having nodded toward the hospital to further prove his point. Even now, though his grip on either of my hands is firm, he quite obviously has a firm grasp of his temper to control his strength so as not to hurt me.

Slowly, he lets go of one of my hands to close the door, and I feel exactly how infuriated he is. It seems to radiate from his form in terrifying pulsations, his arm brushing against my chest as he retracts his hand.

“Are you listening?” he snaps out the questions almost as loud as his orders to stay put. I don’t flinch or even feel particularly threatened at all, but Harry is a scary sight to behold when he is this far gone into his anger. Scary indeed.

“Yes,” I choke out anyway, overcome by the whirlwind of emotions that I end up squeezing my eyes shut. My heart doesn’t even concern me right now, the possibility of it malfunctioning again not registering. Because right now, while I may be utterly distraught, it seems rather steady. Can Harry really manage to keep my heart calm when everything else is anything but?

Even the way he peers at me after I force my eyes open again is unnerving, as though he sees past every one of my facades and attempts to keep all this bottled up. Because here we are, about to unearth them all, and I bet he knows it too. Like a predator aching to strike but patient as a lion, he slowly settles back in his seat, freeing my hands. They feel cold without him engulfing them, but I figure it might be best not to seek out his touch right now.

“This is about what happened, isn’t it? This is about why.”

Tears flow freely now, and I don’t have the energy to stop them. I need to let these emotions out somehow. When I say nothing, Harry grits out more heartbreaking assumptions—assumptions that are true. “This is about why you fainted. Isn’t it?”

Biting my lip, my fingers frantically pick at a loose thread on my tank top, vision so blurred and head pounding so much that not a single word comes to mind, not even a confirmation of his suspicions.

“Look at me.” It would have been less intimidating had he shouted the order, but he murmurs it in such a low, dangerous tone with a clear warning, that I almost attempt to totally bolt from the car again. No—I am not good with confrontation, at all. Past my better senses, my flight instinct kicks in until all I think about is that I need to get away from the conflict. Sensing the path of my thoughts, however, I hear a definitive click as Harry locks the doors.

It would have been easier had he yelled, too, because it would have snapped my attention directly to him without a single thought, because people shouting always alarms me. Now, though, I have to force every seized part of my frozen body to turn to him, slowly in irrational fear. Harry can be so scary when he is this angry, and he doesn’t even realize it. My mouth trembles and more tears spill over as I timidly shift my gaze toward his figure, sat tense and looming next to me. I see a man at the very end of his rope; a man, despite how terrifying he may appear, whose intentions are pure. I see a man who never once gave up on me, even though all I gave him in return is every single reason to just that. And every time I tried to push him away, to recede back into my cold, lonely, empty world he only pulled closer, brought me from the darkness I threw over myself to keep others out. He showed me love in a time when nobody else did, love I have never even felt before, when everyone else had long since given up on me. He provided me a reason to live, when even I had given up on myself.

And now this man is in front of me, and I am single handedly putting him through hell. All because of one thing I have refused to tell him through it all, the one thing I was too scared and shy to share, at the possibility of losing him.

He deserves to know.

After all, he’s already witnessed it. The very thing I’ve been trying to keep from him, and he’s still here.

His eyes soften the moment I turn to him and he sees how upset I am truly am. Frown fading and expression losing that hard edge, he appears almost remorseful before he takes my hand back in a light, gentle hold, threading his fingers through mine.

“Baby,” he says, voice breaking on the word as he peers at me with glossy eyes. “Just tell me.”

We both know that if he lets this go now, I will never tell him.

It’s now or never.

Without breaking eye contact, I take as deep a breath as I can and try to find the right words to say. Then, I soon realize, there aren’t any. Not in this situation. There’s no guide book on how to tell your boyfriend of your serious heart disorder. There is no right time to tell him, not as I once thought. I just have to go into this conversation with as level a head as I can muster, and hope for the best.

Because the worst would break me.

“It is. All of this is why I don’t want to go in here,” I mimic his earlier action and nod toward the emergency doors. “Because of what happened. At Vivian’s.”

This is the most I have spoken in hours, and despite how hard it is to talk about this with him, it feels good to get just this small amount off my chest. It has all been weighing so heavy that it felt like I was drowning under everything left unsaid for far too long.

He leans back in his seat, now patient after having had to push me nearly over the ends of the earth just to get this far. Then he nods in encouragement, the hard, angry film over his eyes long faded. Now that he has finally gotten through to me, probably in one of the very few ways possible, he relaxes. Cornering me like this really might be the only way to coax such information out of me.

“I’m afraid to go in there,” I say again, mind momentarily drawing a blank as I attempt to somehow mentally prepare myself for what is about to be said. “Because… you’ll find out why I fainted.”

Only a second passes for Harry to digest the information, and he does so wordlessly, without letting any of his possible reactions slip. Probably because he suspects there is more to be said. And he’s right—there is so, so much more.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he informs gently. Those are some brave words, seeing as he has no idea where I am heading with the long past due conversation.

“It isn’t something I can control, you have to understand,” I break off because my voice shakes too much to finish. Every part of me shakes as I am forced to look away, mouth trembling and tears falling in steady torrents still, coming undone finally, after months of keeping this inside.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and untangles his hand from mine to touch my cheek, gently turning my head so I am facing him again. “It’s okay, baby. Breathe. We’re okay.”

I do as he instructs, refusing to waste more time with what feels like my foolish antics. He should be sick and tired of seeing me act this way, but how he peers at me with nothing but concern and love leads me to believe otherwise, like he could sit here all night and listen to me as I try to make sense of my own mind. I take his hand from my cheek and bring it back to rest on my lap, eyes following as I fiddle with the multitude of rings on his fingers. Only for a minute, and then I look back up to him, vision still watery but now steady. Or as steady as it possibly can be, given exactly how terrified I am to even approach this subject—how long I put it off.

“It’s just hard to talk about. I don’t ever talk about it, Harry.” I repeat this in an effort for him to understand, somehow, even though it’s almost nothing. It feels like more stalling, but in reality I just am trying to muster up the courage to say it aloud. “And I’m sorry I put it off this long.”

“You can tell me anything.” He doesn’t miss a beat. While we might be separated by the center console and this might be the worst possible setting to tell him, the time suddenly feels right. Harry makes me feel as though I can tell him anything, anywhere, anytime. “I’ve told you that before, and it’s still true.”

“I know. But I—this is something that has been happening for a long time. Since… since I was born.”

Letting this sink it, I pause and take a deep breath, blinking rapidly to keep the looming crying fit at bay and try to maintain some sort of composure. Harry remains rock solid, expressionless, but that is a much better alternative from the angry frown and hardened gaze that graced his features not moments ago. It’s obvious what he is doing—he doesn’t want me to react to his reaction, so he is hiding it.

Either that, or he really is taking it well. But somehow my paranoid, negative mind finds that hard to believe. His hand, still resting in my lap, warm and strong, gives me the reassurance that things might be okay, despite my pessimistic, worrisome assumptions. I remind myself how much I care for him, all he has been through for me, how far we have come. And these reminders are what give me the last burst of strength needed to forge onward.

“I usually feel it coming on… you’ve seen me, with the panic attacks.” That first night after the Uptown, when I fell asleep in his arms on the sofa. And even before then, that prior Sunday. When he pounded on my front door and demanded to be let in, to face him, to not push him away. Finally, today. The countless times today.

He nods, easily recalling these events. I take another deep breath. They usually… I usually faint if I’m that far gone. But sometimes, it happens, and I can’t control it, or it comes from nowhere. Sometimes it’s when I forget to take my pills—”

“—Pills?” He doesn’t really mean to interrupt, but knows that if he doesn’t ask now, I might not ever explain. He raises a questioning, totally non-judgmental eyebrow. “Never seen you take any.”

“Yeah, well…” The tiny sheepish laugh is very telling of the great lengths I’ve gone to keep this hidden. “I usually take them, um, every morning. If I get super stressed, or upset, like today, they make sure it doesn’t happen. But it did, and you saw—when I fainted.”

Never did I think I would possess the nerve to get this far, to tell him this much. I also thought that he gave up on me, and he’s made it very clear that he didn’t, won’t ever. So I suppose the conclusions made in worrisome haste aren’t very accurate. Now the puzzle is slowly starting to form and come together for him, and the most difficult thing I’ll ever have to do is provide that very last piece to connect it all.

It’s almost like I can see the gears turning in his mind as he listens attentively to my rambled explanation, answering his question and so much more without even realizing.

“What…” he pauses, blinks and peers at me, as though wondering if I’m ready. I am. As ready as I’ll ever be, which will have to be enough. “What causes it?”

“What causes you to faint?” He clarifies after a moment. There is no anger or disgust in the way he asks—just gentle curiosity.

And this is it: the big question, with the colossal answer. No more avoiding the bombshell, which should have been dropped ages ago. I lick my lips as I observe him in turn, for one last second, wanting to be sure he also really is ready.

He is.

“My heart.”

“Your heart.”

He doesn’t pose it as another question, but more as a confirmation. Meanwhile, the very thing we are talking about begins to race as I comprehend that it is out in the open, now, and there’s no taking it back. Harry’s got the gist of it, and soon he’ll know it all.

With the words, so heavy and full of implication, now hanging between us like tiny, hopeful beacons of light at the end of my darkness, I don’t know what to do next. What to say. My chest constricts in panic and adrenaline begins to course through my veins. It’s out. It’s said. And I have no idea how he is going to take it.

“It—it doesn’t beat right,” I say, hysterically, and it comes through a shallow breath of air. It doesn’t beat right. That’s the only way to describe it, how broken it is. And then I take a quiet gasp, feeling as if I really can’t breathe at all now, ducking my head so Harry can’t see how hard this is. I feel like I am teetering on the edge of life and death here, in the passenger seat of his car while I wait for him to say something, anything.

As soon as he hears my telltale panic, however, Harry reacts instantly. His touch is soft as he leans over, unbuckling his seat belt and then my own the hand that once rested on my thigh. He absolutely shocks me when he reaches to draw me closer, making me look up through my tiny, hard breaths to see him and stinging tear-filled vision, to the softness in his eyes and the worried crease in his brow, and then I feel his hand on my heart as his forehead rests against mine.

Against his palm my heart races, and I figure he must feel it too. He must see how absolutely torn and petrified I am of losing him, and I can’t even find it in me to feel pathetic for it.

“You’re fine,” he whispers, lips close to mine. Those first words are what I need to hear, but I can’t calm down even slightly. I’m fine. If Harry says I’m fine, then I’m fine. “You’re absolutely fine. You heart doesn’t change anything. It’s beautiful—you’re beautiful. I loved you, I loved your heart, long before now. You’re more than that, Jules. You’re so much more, and you’re absolutely perfect.”

He loves me. He’s loved me for perhaps as long as I have loved him. And just like he said before, when it came out that I was keeping something—my heart—from him, he even told me then. He wants me for me, not my heart, even though he says he loves it, too. Even when I cannot love myself, or the flawed organ.

“Are—are you sure?” My shaky question is asked through a lurching intake of air. It seems too hard to believe, because this is what I have always dreamt of hearing from him. I feel like he is going to pull away at any moment, realize what he is saying isn’t right. Isn’t logical. That he could never love a girl with a broken heart.

But he doesn’t. He only smiles, mouth moving forward to lovingly peck my trembling lips. The contact acts almost as intensely as a tranquilizer to me, and so does his acceptance. The fact that he is smiling. Everything.

“I’m positive. Absolutely positive.”

Absolutely positive.

It takes me several seconds to process that. Harry still wants me. He knows everything, and yet he still wants me.

The next words tumble from my mouth without even the thought of trying to stop them.

“I love you too. I love you so much, Harry.”

God, it’s like the weight has been lifted from my chest that easily. I finally manage to get some air into my lungs, all while my forehead still rests against his.

Then he laughs, a sound so relaxed and free and right, that none of this feels wrong. Not even my heart. And I start to laugh, too, against his mouth as I can’t help but leave light kisses in return, exhilarated and relieved.

That’s it. It’s out. He knows, he loves me, and he knows I love him too. There’s nothing else holding me back; in several short minutes I have been released from everything that bound me to the prison of my own creation, binds knotted with fear, loss and rejection.

Minutes pass, us both reveling in this moment. Right now it doesn’t matter that we are parked in front of a hospital after I fainted and hit my head, it doesn’t matter that my house was burglarized and trashed just hours ago, and it doesn’t matter that I kept something so huge from him for so long.

With one last lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth, he reluctantly pulls back, gazes at me with nothing but acceptance and adoration. I look back at him, almost disbelievingly, as my tears have subsided and I start to feel that still shocking calm that takes over me when Harry is near.

“Wait here,” he murmurs softly, features shrouded underneath the dying light of the day.

Then he is out of the car within the blink of an eye, jogging around the car in a flash to my side, and opens the door for me. I look up at him as he holds his hand out for me expectantly, and while his bottom lip is taken between his teeth in thought, nothing else about his expression leads me to believe he hates me, or is kicking me out of his car, letting me fend for myself after telling him just how screwed up I really am.

His hold is gentle as he helps me to my feet, his other hand instantly moving to the small of my back to keep me steady as I sway slightly. This comes as a bit of a shock, and I begin to realize that I might have actually hurt myself from the fall.

“Are you sure you can walk on your own?” he asks quietly, tense all over again.

Having been fixated on the emergency doors I snap back to look up at him and nod slightly, hoping to give him the reassurance I find hard to feel myself. No, I’m not exactly sure, but if there’s one thing I loathe it is admitting weakness or defeat. I’ll get there myself, somehow, as long as Harry doesn’t have anything to say about it.

“I’m sure.”

“Hmm…” Clearly he isn’t convinced, and his eyes travel down my almost wilted form in an obvious, agonizingly slow appraisal. “If not, I quite like you in my arms.”

He stays close as my heart flutters, not from stress but from his words, murmured quietly in both jest and seriousness. His mouth quirks as a flittering smile makes its way onto my own, and he watches as I hold onto the pendant on my chest, drawing strength from it where I can’t in myself. I find strength in Harry, more than I ever have in my own fragile heart.

“I’m pretty sure,” I say again, and purse my lips as in real consideration of his offer. “But I’ll definitely let you know, though, because I like being in your arms too.”

His smile turns breathtaking, and the craziness of this situation fits me fully. Here we are, at the hospital after I’ve just fainted and then told him about my heart in the span of maybe an hour tops, and through it all we still manage to find the time to flirt. It’s effortless, encompassing, and totally addictive, and just right.

“I’ll always carry you,” he says quietly, turning a little more serious, because he means it. Just as much as I do.

For some reason I feel more pesky tears prick at the corners of my eyes at our little admissions, and I realize how nice it is for these things to be said aloud, for our feelings to be shared in ways they never could have before, when I hid everything. Somehow, too, he always knows just what to say, what I need to hear.

The need to hold him, to rest my head against his chest as his arms wrap around me in a secure, strong embrace is stronger than ever, but I hold back.

Not until he knows. Not until he is fully aware.

I nervously glance past him, toward the bright lights illuminating the large building, and focus back on him.

“It’s really hard to me to talk about,” without bawling my eyes out and asking for forgiveness for ever keeping it from you. I allow the cool evening air to caress my exposed skin as I quickly nod toward the entrance. “But if we go in there, they will explain it better than I ever could.”

And without holding back cold hard facts. If we go in there, he will hear all about the worst, ugliest side of the disorder. The worst case scenarios. Which is what happened to my father—the worst case scenario, of course, being death.

That was because he had gone his whole life without ever knowing, however. Without any symptoms, which is the most dangerous form this disorder can take. He went his entire existence just fine until the day he was taken, long before his time. I squeeze Harry’s hand tighter at these terrifying memories and the path my mind is taking, and remind myself that things are different now.

With me. The medication I take is basically a cure, and for the few who they don’t work for, there are permanent possible alternatives, like implantable devices such as pace makers. Beta blockers work for me, and while it took a while to find the right ones exactly, they have worked for years. It’s only when I stupidly forget to take them that things like this happen, which is no fault to the medication.

The fault is all mine, and mine alone. One missed dose can have negative effects on my body for weeks. And then there is my mind which is its own worst enemy, and how easily stressed and upset I can be. It all comes into play, creating a dangerous cocktail of possibilities set up to only hurt me. It all ends up spelling bad news and more trouble for my heart, which continues to suffer for my own mistakes even today, when I know better, when I have more of a will to live than ever.

Now I understand, or am beginning to, how Harry is so easily able to pull me from the dangerous territory my mind takes, which leads to the terrifying fainting spells.

He gets me out of my own mind. He is much, much more than a distraction; he is my world.

He nods in understanding, body angled toward me, acting as a shield between us and the rest of the world, from my disorder, from myself.

Tonight, however, we are going to have to brave it all. The time feels right, or as right as it will ever be. I can do this, as long as he stands by me. As long as he doesn’t give up on me. I can’t imagine walking into that hospital holding his hand and then leaving alone, should he decide this is too much. That I am too much. Or not enough.

Not enough to compensate for all my issues.

My breathing hitches and I look down, turning my head so the panic in my eyes is hidden from his sight, but I only end up clamping my eyes shut anyway to fight the intensity of my negative thoughts and emotions. That nagging, negative part of my mind continues to whisper that I’m not worth it, that Harry wouldn’t be in his right mind if he chooses to stay.

He might love me, but I’m not enough.

“Jules…” he calls, sounding much more comfortable with all this than he should be, as if none of this is that bad. It is, though. It’s terrible, and it won’t be long until he realizes that. Until he realizes I’m not worth it.

A panicked breath escapes me, sounding more choked than anything, when he softly says my name.

“Come on, baby.” He pulls my stiff form closer, arm constricting around my waist. I feel totally numb, yet overwhelmed by several thousand degrees at the same time, and I still can’t open my eyes, can’t get a hold of myself. How I got through these last moments with a straight, composed face is beyond me, but now all that occupies my thoughts is returned hysteria.

Harry knows. He knows about my heart, and he even though he says he won’t, he’s going to leave.

“Let’s just go in, get you checked out,” he whispers into my ear comfortingly. At some point, my hand moves to clutch onto his shirt for support, which of course I find. “And then we’ll go home, and everything will be fine. I promise you, Julia. Everything will be fine.”

Not once does he question my sudden change in mood, my panic, because he understands. How hard this is for me. He understands why I couldn’t tell him, why I only am now, at perhaps the most inopportune moment possible. Harry understands me when I can’t even understand myself.

Nor does he totally disregard my feelings, stroking my hair as he presses soft, comforting kisses to my jawline, coaxing me out of the dark place I’ve gone to and into his light. My breathing starts to even out as I comprehend what he says. We’ll go home, he promised. And everything will be fine.

Even now, still, he doesn’t give me the option of leaving, of avoiding the hospital like I have been begging for all this while. I need to do this, he needs to know, once and for all. And also, the fact that he still wants to make sure I am physically okay—is another reason why we are standing here. It would have been the main one, had I not dropped all this information on him out of the blue.

He isn’t letting this go; he isn’t letting me go, not by a long shot. And it’s through this, this reassurance, that I calm.

On a shaky nod, I draw back until we are still close enough so our foreheads nearly brush, and can’t help but to blurt out my next words.

“I’m sorry.” For all the trouble I have caused. “I—I shouldn’t have kept this from you. You don’t… you can…”

What I try to say is that he can walk away now, if he wants, but I can’t.

Because it would be a flagrant lie. There’s no way I could ever try to claim that if he walked away now, that it wouldn’t break me. It would—it would break the last part of me that is still together, and it would be shattered into pieces.

I don’t know what I would do, the memories of my life before Harry made himself welcome faded, grey, lifeless. Sad.

“You don’t have to stay,” I force it out, mouth feeling numb, like it’s impossible to understand what I’m really saying. “If you don’t want to. But I—I really want you to.”

Intense fear and sadness overtake me, and I try to turn away, feet tripping over his, to shield how hard this is for me from his view. I don’t want my weakness to influence his decision—I don’t want him to pity me, even though I know he doesn’t, not even now… but he needs to think with a clear head, and that is something I definitely cannot provide him with.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, forceful, hand at my waist pulling me back around and closer to him than ever, so my torso crashes against his. “If you think I’m going to run away now, after everything, because of your heart, something you cannot control… Julia, you must be insane.”

Doubtful, I bite my lip and wonder if he truly understands the magnitude of my disorder. What he says is a comfort, however, because it makes me feel as though together, we can overcome anything. Even this, something I once thought (and the doubt still remains) nobody in their right minds could get past.

“Are you sure?” It trickles from the scared, negative wonderings still left. He knows, though. He knows, and here he is, standing in front of me, telling me it doesn’t matter… or that it does, and wants to stay anyway.

From the exasperated look he gives me, I can tell Harry is tempted to roll his eyes at my lingering doubt. When he responds, though, I begin to see just how seriously he really is taking my news.

“Yes. I’m much more than sure. I’m not giving you up, baby,” he says, leaning to press a soft kiss to my mouth, and then several to my jaw line. I savor this, this moment of peace and relief in the midst of chaos. A trail of intense heat is left whenever his mouth touches, even now, warm and soft, and it’s impossible to suppress the shiver my body emits in response to his intimate actions.

“Now let’s get in there, and get you checked, so I can take you home and cuddle you and make you feel better.”

“I’m not quite sure how you’re going to do that,” my whispered pondering is heard by his sensitive ears, and as he begins to lead me toward the hospital’s doors, the coy smirk he wears as he glances down to me knowingly leaves me with an odd, intense warmth settling in my belly.

“Oh, I’ve got a fair idea.”

His suggestive tone totally contradicts my previous, far more innocent conclusions, and from the heat that spreads to my cheeks I know I must be blushing furiously. Now, at the thought of Harry’s idea of ‘making me feel better’, the pain in the back of my head dulls as nervous shocks spread throughout my body. Oh, god… he probably knows what he’s doing to me, even while things are still so crazy, and that’s why he is doing it. But still… I try to shove away such thoughts before pausing, intent on stalling only for another minute.

“Wait,” I call when he looks back to my questioningly, with a hint of good natured impatience. The sight of him, having told him everything I’d been keeping back, is a relief. At this news he takes in stride, he is braver than I have ever felt. In the face of such fears he gives me the courage I could never possess to get through the terrifying uncertainties my life throws at me; he is strong for me when I can’t be. I don’t think I could ever thank him enough in any sort of expression.

Tearing up, I don’t even mind the fact that I’ve cried in front of him far too many times today.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, concerned as he observes the tears welling again in my eyes.

I simply shake my head, unable to speak, and then I step forward to wrap my arms around his waist, burying my head in his chest. Everything is a comfort, from this very moment to how he smells and feels against me, how he instinctually moves to return the embrace without a second thought, holding me tightly and securely.

Past how lightly he appears to be taking this, Harry is smart. I know he is probably only putting on this front to help me get through it in one piece. Because once we go through those doors, nothing will ever be the same.

“Listen to everything the doctors say,” I instruct, voice wobbling as I fight to gain control over my emotions.

“I will.”

“And… and please hold my hand.” My voice is collectively cool, or at least somewhat, and hides just how vulnerable I feel.

“I am,” he lightly squeezes my hand, as though he believes I’ve lost all feeling in the extremity and he’s trying to bring it back.

“I know.” It’s hard to get these words out, to show such weakness, but with Harry it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like finally telling him to the truth, letting him in, allowing him to finally see a clear picture of the real me. And right now, that is someone who needs his support, his love, and his acceptance. He seems to understand this before I even say it, but it falls from my mouth anyway. “Just—just don’t let go, okay?”

Steadily, he nods, and doesn’t look away as he draws closer, meaning much more than his simple reply. “I won’t.”

Notes

Edit: I've just found out that Inherent has been nominated for two Wallflower 1dff awards! Holy crap. Best AU and most unique. This is crazy. Thank you so much to whoever nominated this story, I love you! If you'd like to give me the best Christmas present ever, you could click the following link and leave a vote! :)

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1X_u3izRNfyH-edHteJmKyjg37uxVUm9-KjJQedqjED4/viewform

Hiiii wonderful people, I promised you an update before Christmas and where I am, it's nearly four a.m. Christmas morning, so I hope this counts. :) I would have posted it earlier tonight but the chapter felt lacking so after some family time, I went back and added over 1,000 words. I'm pretty well exhausted and I hope this chapter is okay, and that the formatting is too! My eyes hurt too much to really make sense of it at this point, haha.

So, it finally happened. Harry knows, and he's going to find out a whole lot more very soon. After they are done at the hospital, I can also promise you that he will be taking Jules back to his place for some much needed TLC :) But what I really like about her character is that while she believes that Harry accepts her, now, she has to see it to believe it, and it's going to take a while for her to really see how much he truly does care for her.

And they said they love each other. Holy crap. Finally, right?!

What do you think of how this unfolded, totally not to plan or how Julia would have wanted it? What about Harry's long-awaited reaction? Where do you think they will go from here? So many questions... I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this chapter, as it is a crazy important one.

I think that's it from me. Just want to say thank you so, so much for reading, commenting, and subscribing, and that I love you all. Merry Christmas!