My skull throbs against the wooden pillar attached to the small porch, the entranceway to our own private hideaway. My eyes continue to open and close, although, with every blink, my eyelids become heavier and heavier. They peel apart whenever there is a noise, and scan the deep forest that is only now beginning to come to life. There is no sun, the autumn drizzle now seizing control of every day. Normally, I love the rain so much more than the sun.

However, right now, my pajamas are still damp, and there is a permanent chill that won't seem to go away. I should go inside, yet I feel safer guarding the door. If I'm here, there's no chance of someone breaking in while I sleep. I'm determined to wait up for Giovanni.

Sitting in my own thoughts, I'm able to count up the hours that I've been awake.

Thirty-two. Thirty-two hours without any sleep. Not for lack of trying. Every time I set my head down on a pillow, I'm overwhelmed by the stamina of my brain. I can't seem to shut it off, probably because there isn't enough time in my day to get to everything.

Between work, which responsibility has heightened considerably, and Norman, who is rapidly deteriorating, now needing to walk with a cane to get around because his balance is shot, the failure of finding something worthy to get Dixon off my back, the absence of Giovanni, knowing at any moment of any day that we could make a mistake and all of this could blow up in our faces—and the baby, to which I've forced myself to think little of.

The only time I allow myself to acknowledge the fact is when I'm reaching for alcohol and have to stop myself or when my phone lights up, indicating the doctor's office has called again to schedule my first appointment. Even when I'm vomiting, a result of morning sickness, my mind seems to erase the reason, wiping my brain to a blank canvas. Other than that, I've put the thought out of my mind.

And I know why I never think of it. It all comes down to the day I found out. I'm terrified to experience what I did in that room again. I can handle everything else. Yes, I'll lose sleep; I'll chew my bottom lip until it's swollen. But I won't break down.

I can't afford to break down.

But then, I know I can't deny this forever. At some point, I have to bring myself to accept this, as much as it frightens me to do so.

Catching movement in the sky, my head tilts up to find a hawk flying above the tree line, soaring. As I watch night become day and the darkness drift into a lighter stormy haze against the leaves of the trees, the puddles on the unevenly paved driveway, my eyelids begin to drift closed despite myself.

As if no time had passed at all, I resurface at the feel of hands. I'm too tired to be afraid, and besides, the touch is too gentle to be malicious. They scoop me up in a bridal carry and into a hard chest. With a tilt of my head, I force my eyelids apart, blinking repeatedly to fight the drowsiness that's consumed me.

I peer up at Giovanni with a smile, but that immediately fades. It's not Giovanni carrying me into the house, but Dixon. His blond hair gleams, his smile extended wide on his face as he looks down at me. I can't speak, or scream, or cry. Initially paralyzed by fear, I squirm out of his grip, slamming my hands into his chest, watching his brows furrow in confusion.

"Stop, Scarlett."

His grip finally loosens at my pushes, and I squirm out enough to drop to the floor. Knees scraping against the chipped porch, I shove myself into the side of the building and bring my knees to my chest, too terrified to speak. I re-open my eyes, glancing up through my straggly hair and immediately freeze.

Giovanni is staring down at me in the same place Dixon was, eyes round with disbelief.

Oh, shit. I close my eyes, letting out my breath. Oh, shit.

He bends to his knees, his dark curls shielded still by a baseball cap. I take in the sight of him, mouth stapled shut, observing his unusually casual clothes, his features paled by lack of sleep.

"I saw you a week ago, Scarlett," he whispers, unable to conceal his horror. "What's going on?"

I must look pretty bad. Gulping, I look from him to the place I had fallen asleep.

Like a person possessed, I scramble up and crash into him, taken by the relief of his body. I feel like I've gone insane. Maybe I have. I gather his shirt in fistfuls, urging him closer even though he's as close as I can possibly get him.

His hands move the length of my back over the jacket. "You're shivering."

"It's cold."

"No...it's not." He pulls back, and applies the back of his hand to my cheek, then my forehead. His mouth slims with finality. "You have a fever."

"Are you sure?" I reply, too tired to raise my cheek from his shoulder. A small sound of protest leaves my lips when he gathers me into his arms again, more urgently this time and stands. His warmth is welcoming.

"Did you bring anything? Clothes?"

I shake my head. "My purse."

"Is there Tylenol in there? Ibuprofen?"

He sets me down onto the couch. "Yeah."

He leaves wordlessly, and with the door wide open, I see him snatch up my purse from the step. He shuts the door and locks it, making his way over to the table. I sink into the uncomfortable lumps of cushion, and close my eyes.

I hear Giovanni rummaging through my purse.

"What's this?"

My eyes open, despite the deliriousness. He's holding a prescription bottle.

"Zoloft. My doctor proscribed it."

He's clearly not happy with that admission, but he sets it down, continuing on for the Tylenol. Unscrewing the cap, he pours a couple of pills into his hand and heads to the kitchen.

"I just need some sleep, Gio. I'll be fine then."

"How many days have you been telling yourself that?"

"You sound mad."

"At myself, yeah."

"This is my fault."

He comes back to me, and bends, holding out his hand. I take the pills and water he extends, and swallow them both. He helps me up and out of my clothes, which is already dry apart from my shoes which are soaked through, probably for good. He pulls me up, back into his arms and I shove my face into his chest, clutching onto the material, appreciating his natural warmth.

"There's no bath here, but we need to get the fever down. The shower is going to have to do, unless you want me to take you to the hospital."

Any arguments I was about to make remain inside, so he will choose this option. He walks me into the bedroom and fits us into the small bathroom. Setting me down onto the toilet seat, he reaches into the standing shower, turning on the water.

"This looks different," he observes. I can't wrap my arms tighter around myself.

"N-Norman had people brought in...to update the place."

He tests out the water with his hand. "I liked the rustic disrepair vibe this place had going."

I nod, nearly lifting my feet from the cold tile. He turns, grabbing my hands. Dizzily, I reach out and he steadies me.

"You'd make a good doctor."

He chuckles, but it lacks any punch. He glances at the water and then to me. "This is going to feel really cold, you know that right?"

I nod, letting him guide me into the shower. The second the water hits my skin, I groan, flinching. I feel significantly worse the longer the icy water showers over me. I hear my own loud fits of discomfort, my hoarse gasps as I press myself into the tile, needing to rest my head against something.

"Holy shit," I whisper to myself. "Oh, I don't like this."

I berate myself mentally at my stupid foolishness, my complete carelessness as my fingers dig between the new tiles, in a futile effort to remain upright. My knees and joints weaken considerably, in reaction to the downpour upon my skull.

An exhale of relief leaves my lips when I feel a presence behind my back, and arms wind around my body. Giovanni pulls me into his front, holding me tightly enough that he replaces my bones and muscles with his own, keeping me on my feet. My head feels heavy, leaned into his bare chest. I blow out a breath, and wrap my fingers around each of his forearms, letting the water pour over me.

"You aren't cold?" I whisper to him, as his lips press to the curve of my neck so gently.

"I can't stand to see you shiver."

I smile despite the pain, letting him take the burden of it all from me. I can barely stand, yet he holds me up. I can't seem to stop shivering, so he keeps me warm. I imagine us as pieces to a puzzle, only complete when placed together. I've grown used to his attention, his desire to make me happy, so much so that I now struggle on my own.

I have always run my world, ever since I was a child. I made sure no one could get close enough to ever feel they should have any say in who I become, what I do, how I live. I always thought it would be some horrible thing...and yet, here I am, relying completely on someone to keep me standing, figuratively and literally.

It's a terrifyingly wonderful feeling, to place yourself into someone's hands, knowing they'll nurture you until you're ready to try the world alone again.

Giovanni creates friction with his hands, rubbing my skin, trying to alleviate the tremors. Somewhere in the minutes spent in agony, he lowers us to the floor, most likely to appease my fragile body. I feel small surrounded by his arms, seated on his lap. I nuzzle into the space below his chin, cheek resting against his light stubble.

"I can't take this anymore," he whispers above me, so quietly I believe he never meant me to hear it.

...

My eyelids open reluctantly, coming into consciousness, immediately hit by the events of early today. I'm staring at Giovanni's chest, which rises and falls in deep breaths, settled in peaceful slumber. My fingers twitch against his warm skin, and I relax by the fact that I'm not cold. His leg is nestled between mine, his arms heavily weighing down the curve of my waist, his hands still against my lower spine.

I don't wonder what time it is, although I should. I don't bother turning to look.

I tilt my head back enough to observe him closely while he's not looking, thinking back to what I put him through. The promise I broke, the promise I made to him vowing to keep myself together.

I'm a mess, in every sense of the word.

And somehow, he is still here.

The window to the bedroom is closed, but the curtains open. The sky is dark, but sun still finds its way through the cloud cover. My fingers graze his skin, exploring softly as not to wake him. My nose is stuffed, my throat sore, but with him here, I cannot dwell on that.

"My remedy," I whisper, against his skin, closing my eyes once more.

...

The bed sinks with a loud creak, and I'm awake. Hand placed beneath my cheek, I peer to the body at the end of the bed, holding a bowl. Giovanni smiles, softly, wearing pajama bottoms he must have brought with him. Nothing else.

"You're still a little warm, but the fevers down," he states, setting the bowl onto the old table beside the bed. He scoots closer, and places the back of his hand against my forehead, which then travels along the curve of my face. I reach for his hand, clasping onto it tightly. His smile is tender when I kiss his palm.

"I'm sorry." I shake my head. "I put you through so much. I shouldn't have made you come."

"I like taking care of you, Scarlett." His mouth frowns slightly. "It makes me feel...needed. And I like that. You keep so much from me."

I freeze at his words. Even as he rubs my leg through the sheet. He contemplates his words, which makes me nervous. When his eyes fall upon mine, I know what to expect.

"When did your doctor proscribe you Zoloft?"

"Not long ago."

"Why?"

I swallow, turning slightly to stare up at the ceiling. "I'm a mess, Gio. Let's just leave it at that."

"No, let's not." At his reproach, my gaze meets his. He exhales deeply. "Speak to me. Tell me the truth."

"It's embarrassing."

"How so?"

"Well, by t-the fact that I'm so fucking—"

"What?"

"Lost."

His brow rises. "Lost?"

"Yes."

He diverts his eyes to my legs, where his hand is. I stare at him, still exhausted.

"I had a panic attack a week ago. The doctor proscribed me something that would make everything a little easier. It's...embarrassing, to say the least."

"No, it's not."

"You don't know the feeling," I counter. "To feel completely helpless. To feel like you want to lie down on the floor and never get up, knowing you have to, because people count on you."

I shut my eyes and press my hands into the mattress, lifting myself into a sitting position.

"I really...I just want to sit here with you. Is that okay?"

He nods at my request, but his eyes are full of concern that won't be easily dismissed. I glance at the clock. It reads 4pm.

"How long do we have?"

He grabs the soup, handing it to me. "I called Norman. He had been calling your phone. I told him what happened. We're going to stay tonight here."

"Isn't that a risk for us?"

"One I'm willing to make."

"Really?"

He nods. "I'm tired, tired of pretending like any of this is alright. We don't do well apart."

I look down at the spoon in the bowl. "You mean me."

"No, I mean us both. Scarlett, I don't forget about you the moment I set foot in California. You are a permanent fucking part of my day." He clasps my face, brows furrowing. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

"You came here at the drop of a hat, in the middle of the night. You bathed me, kept me warm," I breathe, setting my forehead to his cheek. "You took care of me."

"It's not enough."

"It's plenty."

"Clearly, it's not. And you're downplaying what you're going through yet again." He chuckles, frustrated. "You think you're sparing me by keeping things to yourself, but in truth, you're only hurting us."

"There's a lot going on," I tell him truthfully. I can hardly look at him.

"I am aware."

No, you're not.

I choke on my own words as I set the plate down on the table with a thud.

Keep your damn mouth shut, Scarlett.

I climb out of the bed, forcing my feet to move or else my knees would give out. My hand cups my head, which is throbbing. "I'm sorry I made you come all this way—"

"Scarlett."

"I wasn't thinking clearly—"

"Scarlett."

I chuckle to myself, hating that only one thought keeps surfacing in my brain, the one thought I've pushed off, the one thought I'd promised myself I wouldn't tell him. "Stop."

"Goddammit, just talk to me. Tell me what's going on!"

"I can't!" I grip onto the dresser for support, looking down at the t-shirt I'm in: his t-shirt.

When I dare a glance in his direction, his eyes are wide as saucers, as he realizes what I'm keeping hidden is important. "You can't?"

My eyes squeeze shut in regret. Don't do this. Don't do this to him.

"I didn't mean that. I'm...messed up right now. I can't think."

"You're lying."

I turn, heading out the door, wanting space to think, but it's no surprise he's bounding after me. He catches my arm, pulling me to a stop.

"We are better than lies, Scarlett. I don't care what you've told yourself. I don't care if the news will fucking kill me. I deserve the truth!"

"I'm scared!"

He shakes his head, at a loss. "Of what?"

"Of how you'll react. Of what you'll do."

He takes hold of my face with both hands. "Damn it, Scarlett! Just tell me!"

I pull myself from him, spinning around.

My brain urges me to find a way out of this mess my heart has just created. But I know I can't. I can't keep this to myself anymore. I can't keep him in the dark anymore.

"Scarlett, I love you!" He exhales passionately. "Whatever this is, we can figure it—"

"I'm pregnant," I blurt out through my hand, which is covering my lips in horror. He stops speaking mid-sentence, leaving his words echoing in the air.

The seconds tick by slowly, resulting in further silence.

"What did you say?"

My swallow is loud, and difficult, and telling. I turn to him slowly.

He's staring at me, his face painted in surprise. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my throat is thick, making the words hard to re-utter.

"I am pregnant," I whisper, softer this time, "with your baby."

"You're—"

I repeat it because it doesn't seem to be registering. But before I can finish the sentence, he's right in front of me. He's made it to me within seconds and captured my face between his hands. He doesn't kiss me right away—he waits, which sucks the air right out from my lungs.

Oh, fuck.

I stare at him, truly frightened. His eyes are overflowing with emotion, wide and rimmed with water. He holds me to him, nose to nose, and finally breathes, to which his smooth, sculpted lips break into a heart-stopping grin. I'm taken aback by the force of his mouth when it swoops to mine, the way his fingers spread out along my face, needing to hold as much of me as he can.

His kiss isn't perfected or designed to showcase his skills upon me. No, this kiss is messy; it's desperate and violent, full of untamed passion, wonder, and awe. He gasps against my mouth, body trembling just as my own is, but doesn't stop bestowing kisses upon me. I'm struck by his delight and bask in his tender touch as his lips drift from my mouth to my cheek, my jaw, his breath warm against the skin.

My whole body feels full, overcome. I can't speak. My eyes shut as his hand moves into my hair, his cheek pressing up against my own.

"Oh my God," he whispers to himself.