A/N: And here's part 2! In Jace's POV.

Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.

I wanted to hate you—but I know it in my heart that I can't.

When I saw you back in Isabelle's apartment, with your sallow skin (not the same shade of porcelain white that I remembered), hollowed cheeks and skinny frame, I remembered feeling scared. Terrified, even.

You didn't look like the same strong woman I know, and for the briefest moment, I wondered if it was my doing. Had I driven you into becoming this—a girl who was nothing but skin and bones? Had I gone too far, had I hurt you too much, had I…ruined you? But my damned inner demon, selfish, childish and stupid as ever, had to butt in.

I can count on one hand the number of times that I can actually rely on myself for being consistent. One, my love for you, despite how hard I tried to extinguish it—that remained consistent. And two, I was—I am a consistent asshole.

It shouldn't have taken me finding out the truth from Isabelle and Alec about your condition to stop me from being that asshole. I should have stopped a long time ago and respected your decision to end things instead of feeding my loathsome grudge. I shouldn't have even gotten back with Aline—I didn't love her; I only, regretfully, used her to spite you.

And I hate myself for that.

I would do anything to turn back time and take back the things that I said to you that night—or every other thing I've said to you (directly or not) those eight months before.

Bitch, whore, liar, cheater—You're none of those things. I shouldn't have believed those tabloids, but at the time, they offered a convenient reason; an excuse to get back at you. And like I said, I'm stupid—I would have believed anything as long as it justified my pain.

Selfish boy. Stupid boy.

I suppose this means that your fans were right about me all along—I was a self-centered prick who took without giving, only expecting more from you when you expected none from me. I never appreciated the sacrifices you made for me (so many times you flew in from New York to visit me, but I never once flew back for you—the only time I did that was to break up with you in person. What kind of a man am I?) But most of all, they were especially right about this one thing: that you deserved much better than me.

I am ashamed of myself, not just for hurting you, but for never giving you the chance to explain. I only thought of my own pain—but I never stopped to ask you about yours.

You were the first person that made me believe in love; who showed me that it isn't some sort of an idealistic concept, but something that is felt and nurtured. But I was an idiot—I threw away our love.

The entire time that we spent apart…those painful eight months…tore me apart. When you told me that you didn't want to marry me, a piece of my heart shattered. I'd known before that that I shouldn't have—you were right; we were moving too fast.

If only I'd known the things that I knew now. That the pain I felt before, of your rejection, wouldn't even come close—that it would pale in comparison to the pain that I feel now. The same pain I've been feeling these past three months.

Oh, Clary…

I wish you would wake up already.

These days I did nothing but stare at her as she...slept. She had always been a small little thing, a pixie compared to my giant, but she was never quite as tiny as she looked lying in that hospital bed, surrounded by pristine white sheets, beeping machines, and tubes. Her chest barely moved as she breathed, so the only visible indication that she was still alive showed on her heart monitor.

And I'm so grateful for that heart monitor. Grateful for every steady, consistent beep it made to show that her heart was still working. But even then, it hurt so much seeing her this way.

Not long after Clary had pushed past me that night and left the apartment, little Max came barreling through the crowd with his mother Isabelle and uncle Alec in tow. They both did a double-take when they saw me (even though they'd known that I would be there), and then they started looking around, frantic and panicked in a way I had never seen them react before.

"Where's Clary?" Alec finally asked in a dreadful tone. He looked at me as if he already knew the answer—that she'd stumbled upon me first and that I'd driven her away. I was confused by the grave looks they gave me, even more so after my encounter with Clary.

She'd seemed as if she was—had given up. That she wasn't just "done" with me, but with everybody and everything else. But how could she? The Clary I knew was strong and inspired so many young girls and boys alike to be kind and to stand up for themselves; to never give up in the face of adversity. If she emulated those same values she advocated as a role model, why should there be any concern that she would do something of the complete opposite? She couldn't be that stupid…could she?

Oh God—Why did I even care?

I cleared my throat before answering. "She left not five minutes ago…" More frantic looks were exchanged between the two siblings, and I couldn't help but feel like I was missing something extremely important there.

"Call Jonathan now. Tell him Clary's gone missing—again," Alec told Isabelle while rubbing his temples worriedly. "Fuck." My eyes widened when Alec cursed. I knew the man well enough to know that he never cursed unless it was a situation that warranted a cursing. What the hell was going on here?

"Her parents are going to kill us. This is the second time we failed to look after her in a week!" Isabelle was saying as she furiously tapped away on her phone, probably dialing Jonathan's number. I was growing more and more confused by the minute so I finally spoke up.

"What's going on?" I asked, my tone wary. Isabelle and Alec looked up at the same time, their expressions mirroring shock, as if they were two deers caught in the headlights—or perhaps "two children who just got caught with their hands in the cookie jar" was a better simile to describe the two. "Why are you freaking out like this? Clary leaves every other time—Why are you acting as if you're two hens that just lost their baby chick?" Another animal-related simile—Bravo, Jace. You've never shown much promise for the English language until now.

Isabelle's face suddenly turned murderous and I found myself backing away from her when she stepped closer to me. "Because said 'baby chick' is a sick, dying chick!" She hissed. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" She took another step closer to me and jabbed me in the chest—hard. "She ran out of here just last week telling us how much she wished that she would die already because you have done nothing but hurt her! She isn't just depressed, Jace—She's dying!"

I didn't know long I spent standing there and just staring, Isabelle's words playing on repeat in my head: She's dying. She's dying. She's dying. And before I even knew what I was doing, I was flying out of the apartment door, my heart racing wildly and my palms sweatier than they'd ever been.

I ran as if hell was on my tail and I had to get away—only it wasn't to save myself; it was to save her. The one girl I'd ever truly loved but had driven away by my own destructive nature. I would never forgive myself if I didn't make it to her in time. I would never forgive myself, period. I had been so caught up in my own pain that instead of caring for her like I should have, I hurt her beyond repair. She was dying!

"Clary!" I yelled, a desperate, terrified yell when I saw her red hair flying against the wind. I would have been so relieved to find her this quickly if she hadn't been standing there, trembling like a leaf. I quickened my steps, desperate to reach her. She swayed violently and pitched forward—I leaped just in time to catch her and slowly lowered her to the ground, cradling her as if she were made of brittle glass.

And then I was crying. Pained, choked sobs, barely coherent apologies and shameless pleas for forgiveness. I felt as if I was being stabbed—over and over again when she asked me why I was crying. The sight of blood trickling from her nose, the sickly pallor of her skin and her eyes—as if she were in her own distant, faraway world—tormented me. And God, she was so cold—deathly cold that it scared me. She couldn't die. I wouldn't allow her to die.

When she guided me down to kiss her, my heart stopped. How I'd been so blind to not realize this sooner—to ever doubt her love and fidelity, was probably the stupidest thing I'd ever done. Even then, when she was within arms' reach of Death, she still thought of me. She thought it was more important to comfort me than to try to keep breathing. I don't deserve her. I never deserved her.

I doubted that I would ever be able to erase that night from my memory. The tears I cried when I caught up with her on the street, when she struggled to breathe and her nose bled…right before she collapsed…those tears continued to fall now, three months after that very night. I had never been one for showing emotion, but I did it for her. Because I couldn't help it. She always brought out the best and worst parts of me.

I knew that I was the last human being on earth that deserved her forgiveness, much less a second second chance, but still, I prayed for it. I prayed for her to wake up so that I could see her emerald green eyes one more time—to see her take me in one more time, whether with hatred or…a smile.

"Please wake up, love. You've been sleeping long enough. I miss you so much..." I'd taken to talking to her as part of a daily routine; the doctor and nurses told me that even though she was in a coma, there was a high chance that she could still hear the things that were happening around her.

At first I was skeptical, but after I started talking to her about how sorry I was for all the pain I'd caused her before, when I asked her why—why didn't she tell me that she was sick—tears started to leak from her eyes. She was unconscious, but aware enough to cry. But I didn't like seeing her tears—I reckoned that she'd cried enough in all that time before I reappeared in her life—so I would tell her happier things instead, stories of what and how I envisioned our lives to turn out.

Her doctor encouraged it. They had done everything in their power to try to save her when we came into the emergency room that night. I didn't know if it was coincidence, fate or a miracle, but their months of hard search finally bore success that same night; they managed to locate a compatible heart donor for Clary. And despite the high risk of her dying on that operating table, they performed the transplant. They replaced her old, weak heart with a new one. Thankfully, her body didn't reject it. She responded well to the treatment; her chances of living longer, at least an additional ten years, were higher.

And really, it was a blessing every single one of us could have hoped for. More time with this wonderful human being and her amazing, beautiful heart. If she allowed me to, I would treasure her for the rest of her—our lives. I told her so, every single hour without fail. I imagined that if she were awake, she would have probably slapped me silly from how often I said that.

Her doctor approved of it though. He said that I was doing a good thing, that I was slowly rebuilding her hope so that she had something good to look forward to when she woke up. Her will to live had been weak before, but it grew stronger every day—her vitals grew stronger every day. The only thing she refused to do was to actually wake up.

It baffled everyone, including the doctors. There was no plausible explanation for her coma. The numerous tests they ran on her showed that she was the healthiest she had ever been since she was diagnosed with severe heart disease. There was no trauma, infection or injury to her brain; she just hadn't woken up. In a way, it was almost as if she were biding her time, telling everyone who was waiting for her that she wasn't quite ready to face reality yet…

My sweet, beautiful Clary was stubborn as always. But I would patiently wait for her until she woke up. I knew that she would.

"I know you're probably sick and tired of hearing me say this…but the more you refuse to wake up, the more you'll hear me say it," I joked as I gently caressed her cheek. "I love you. I want you to know that I'm in it for the long run this time—I'll never abandon you again. And if you'll have me, I want to make you my wife. I'll never hurt you again…but if I do, you're entitled to slap me all you want. I promise I won't complain about it. Just wake up already."

"Proposing to my sister in her sleep?" I looked up to find the identical emerald green eyes of Clary's brother staring back at me. He had an eyebrow arched and his arms folded across his chest.

Jonathan and I had never quite been friends; after Clary and I were on bad terms, he, obviously, took his sister's side. I knew a part of him blamed me for what happened to Clary, but other than that one punch to my face the night his sister was rushed into the emergency room, we simply…coexisted. He never asked me to leave, and strangely, neither did their parents.

Don't get me wrong—Valentine Morgenstern wasn't my biggest fan. He'd made it clear to me every time the both of us were in the same room. His baby shouldn't have to settle for a douchebag like me, but it wasn't his decision to make, so he let me be.

And Jocelyn…well, she didn't like me either (not as much as she used to anyway) but she was, for the most part, accepting. To her, the fact that I'd stayed this long in New York, barely leaving her daughter's bed side, much less the hospital, meant that I was sincere about wanting to make it up to Clary. My self-deprecating guilt and remorse was enough of a punishment; I'd earned my right to stay.

I stumbled out of my musings when Jonathan snorted. For some reason that was unclear to me, he looked amused. "Where's the ring? Did you put it on her finger already?" he asked with a smirk.

"Ha-ha, very funny, Jonathan," I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the sleeping beauty. I didn't know what I'd expected to see. Other than the occasional twitching of her hand, she still hadn't moved. I sighed.

"I have the ring. I've had it with me for over a year already." I took her hand in mine and kissed the back of it. "Even while we were broken up, I could never get rid of it. My heart continued to stubbornly love her. I didn't know it then, but I think…a part of me still hoped that she would want me. That she would come back to me. So I kept the ring for that very reason."

"I would say that it's a very…creepy thing to do, especially since you had a girlfriend the entire time," Jonathan said. "Speaking of girlfriends, what happened with…you know?" I didn't have to be a smart-aleck to figure out who Jonathan was referring to.

"Aline and I broke up—well, I broke up with her when she came to the hospital begging for me to 'come home' with her."

Jonathan let out a low whistle. "A public breakup… I'm surprised it didn't show up in the tabloids. How'd she take it?"

I shrugged as I ran circles over Clary's hand with my thumb. "Like how you would expect a banshee to react. She screamed, cursed and slapped me—told me what a jackass I was and how she'd wasted time thinking that she could make me love her the way I love Clary," I said.

"And where was I during this dramatic soap opera?" Jonathan took a seat by the window of Clary's room.

"Who knows? I think you left to take a huge dump. You were gone for so long," I said sarcastically, smiling when Clary's finger twitched at my response.

"Screw you, Herondale."

We sat in complete silence for a long while; the only sounds in the room that could be heard was the beeping of Clary's heart monitor.

"She's going to say yes," Jonathan finally said. I looked up at him in surprise, eyes begging him for confirmation of what he'd just said. He rolled his eyes, the same way I imagined Clary would.

"She's going to say yes—to your proposal," he clarified. "Hell, if you asked me, I would say yes on her behalf. Only because I know how much she loves your stupid ass and that the only thing that's stopping her from saying 'yes' is because she's stubborn and equally stupid."

"Don't you hate me though?" I asked. "I hurt her—badly…so why are you giving me your approval?"

Jonathan's lips thinned into a straight line. "Oh, I hate you alright," he said, narrowing his eyes at me. "You dumb piece of—" He cut himself off before he could finish the curse. "You knew how to trigger my sister's pain and you did it. I shouldn't even allow you to be here, but I did."

I gulped. I already knew what a sorry excuse of a human being I was, but to hear it from Clary's brother…about how I'd exploited her vulnerabilities, made me sink deeper into that pit of guilt and self-hatred. "So why did you let me in here?" I asked, quietly.

Jonathan looked contemplative as he stared at his sister's face. There was a sadness that wasn't there before, and a spark of unconditional love that was uncommon amongst siblings. "Because Clary deserves her happiness. I would put up with you as long as you make her happy." He turned to me and narrowed his eyes, warningly this time. "But if you ever—and I mean ever hurt her again, I'll kick your ass and make sure you never see her again. Are we clear?"

I nodded, putting my head down on Clary's bed and closing my eyes. I knew that there was a lot that I needed to do before I could regain the Morgensterns' unmitigated trust, and if took me the rest of my life to prove myself, then so be it.

Anything for my Clary.

I didn't know how long I'd been asleep for. One would have thought that having spent the last few months camping out 24/7 in Clary's room—and falling asleep in the most uncomfortable positions possible—I would have grown accustomed to the kinks in my neck and the insufferable backaches…but I wasn't.

Still, I wasn't complaining. Nope, not at all. Especially when there was a soft hand massaging the back of my neck, soothing out those stubborn kinks. So small, soft and gentle… I found myself dozing off again when I realized that I recognized those hands…

I shot straight up in my chair, my neck, regretfully, protesting in pain. My eyes were wide open and I could have sworn that I'd stopped breathing. For so long, I had waited for this moment, and now that it was finally happening, I was in complete utter shock.

The next thing I knew, she was pressing her oxygen mask into my face, and smiling in a way I'd never thought I would see her smile again—much less at me.

"Clary?" My voice came out muffled against the oxygen mask.

"Mmm," she replied, and it was the sweetest sound I'd heard in months.

Finally snapping out of my daze, I gently pushed the oxygen mask away from my face. My eyes were intent on hers—a beautiful emerald green that shone so much brighter than the last time I saw them; I could get lost in her gaze forever. She was finally awake.

"Oh, Clary," I breathed out as I buried my face into her hair and inhaled her scent. My right hand was cradling her jaw as I began peppering kisses on the crown of her forehead, feeling relieved and so, so happy that I was finally able to do this while she was awake.

Clary let out a breathless laugh, and surprisingly, she pulled me tighter against her, her own hand caressing the back of my neck.

"Clary…"

She cupped my face in her small hands and I shuddered, my eyes falling shut. I felt a tear slip down my cheek as she gently planted a kiss on my chin—the pressure so soft and light, I barely felt it there. "Kiss me already." Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but I didn't mind one bit. It was Clary.

So I did as she asked, kissing her with more gentleness than I'd ever kissed a girl before. The temptation to deepen the kiss, after so many months of starved deprivation, was strong, but I held myself back with every ounce of self-control I could muster. I didn't want to take it too far. We still had things to say to each other—things that we needed to work out before we could move on and decide what we were to each other again.

"I've missed you," I said when I broke our kiss—albeit reluctantly.

"I missed you too," she whispered as tears began to fill her eyes. She blinked once and they fell, flowing like rapid streams of waterfall. My heart clenched at the sight, even more so when she started sobbing.

"Hey," I cooed. "Shh, baby. Why are you crying?"

"I missed you," she said in between sobs. "The whole time I was in that coma, I heard you. I could hear every single thing you said to me. But still it wasn't the same as actually being awake and able to hold you and kiss you. I was so afraid you'd give up on me and leave me."

"That's never going to happen," I said as I kissed her cheek, letting my lips to linger there on purpose. "I told you, didn't I? I'm never abandoning you again—not unless you ask me to leave."

"I don't want you to leave," Clary said. Her sobs had calmed down a little but there were still the occasional hiccups accompanied by silent streaks of tears. "I love you."

"I love you too," I said, kissing her cheek again.

"Daddy, stop smothering me!" Clary whined loudly when Valentine asked her (for the thousandth time) if she was okay. The older man looked offended by his daughter's reprimand but he didn't budge. In fact, he only pouted at her.

"Young lady, that is not the sort of tone you should be using on your father," he said as if he were scolding a three-year-old. "I see no wrong in showing concern for you. You are my youngest and only princess."

"Dad…"

"Oh Valentine, stop embarrassing our little girl," Jocelyn looked at the two of them amused. "Look at her! She's turning into a tomato."

"Yes, dad. Stop embarrassing our little Clare-Bear," Jonathan joined in, teasing his sister.

"You all suck," Clary folded her arms across her chest and pouted like her father did only moments ago.

I shook my head and smiled. I had never been in the same room as the Morgensterns before—except for the past few months while Clary was unconscious—so this was a first. Seeing the four of them interact with one another, I couldn't help but feel a little envious, but at the same time, amused. I had never had a big family—it was always just me and my dad, and he wasn't the most attentive or affectionate person around, even more so after my mom left us.

"Jace," Valentine intoned in a stern voice. I looked up at him, from where I was still glued to my seat next to Clary and holding her hand. Not to my surprise, he was frowning at me.

"I hope you realize that now Clarissa is awake, you are no longer permitted to stay overnight in her room. In fact, I would rather there be someone else to keep you company at all times while you're with her," he said strictly.

"For what reason?" Clary looked at her father, appalled. To be honest, so was I.

Valentine gave the both of us (mainly Clary) a look as if the explanation was obvious. "For your safety, of course!" He glared at me then. "I don't trust him to be able to keep his hands to himself now that you're awake. It's an absolutely necessary measure that I'm taking to ensure that there is no such funny business. No boy, no matter how much he claims to love my daughter, is allowed to steal her virtue."

"Daddy, you do realize that I'm in a hospital, right?" Clary asked. She was rubbing her temples with her free hand, looking completely exasperated—I realized then that she must have had this talk with her father many, many times before.

"Your point is?" Valentine asked impatiently.

"I'm sure there are certain rules and regulations in place to prevent such things from happening," Clary said. "Besides, Jace won't try anything—if he does, I'll slap him and kick him out of here myself." I gave her an incredulous look when she said that. 'Work with me,' she mouthed while subtly throwing a glance at her father.

"I still don't like it."

"Don't you trust me, Daddy?" Clary looked at him with sad, doe-like eyes, and I immediately schooled my expression into a poker-face, lest I burst out laughing. It hadn't even been three hours since she came to from her coma, and she was already slipping into her old acting skills.

I exchanged a look with Jonathan and Jocelyn, who were both trying hard to stifle their knowing smiles. The only one who was completely buying her act was Valentine. He looked conflicted, as if his heart had been thrust into two different directions—on one hand, he wanted to play the role of a doting, overprotective parent; but on the other, he didn't want to disappoint his daughter.

"Please, Daddy…" Clary jutted out her bottom lip into a deep pout. "Think of how disappointed my poor, frail heart will be." Really, Valentine was fighting a losing battle when she said that.

"Fine," he muttered begrudgingly. He glared at me again. "But I will set the terms of his stay." Oh boy. Here we go again. "There will be no hand-holding," he zeroed in on our tightly clasped hands, "No hugging, no kissing, and absolutely no sharing of beds—Let go of my daughter's hand, Herondale!"

I nearly jumped out of my seat when Valentine raised his voice. My instinctive reaction was to let Clary's hand go, but she held onto me tighter.

"Dad, leave him alone," she scolded him. "He's leaving under no one else's terms but his own." She looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.

"I'm not leaving," I told Valentine firmly, despite how much the man intimidated me.

"Get used to it, Dad," Jonathan stepped towards me and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "He's going to be your son-in-law one day."

If looks could kill, I would have probably been dead by now from the dagger look Valentine was shooting me. The tips of his ears were red, his jaw was clenched and his hands were curled into fists at his sides.

"I just remembered! We should go talk to Clary's doctor," Jocelyn, my unexpected savior, jumped to my rescue. She wrapped her hand around Valentine's forearm and dragged him towards the door, which was an incredible feat considering the man was being stubbornly uncooperative. "Valentine, move!"

"What for?" he growled, continuing to glower at me but thankfully, he was sensible enough to obey his wife's orders this time, albeit unwillingly. "The doctor already came in earlier and explained everything he deemed important—Jocelyn Fairchild-Morgenstern!"

We all let out a simultaneous sigh of relief when the door finally clicked shut behind them.

"Well," Jonathan said, breaking the silence. "This has been a pleasant reunion, although nothing is quite as pleasant as having a happy and sated stomach. Besides, I have no compulsion to stay and be a third wheel, so if you'll excuse me…I'll be in the cafeteria if anyone needs me."

Jonathan strolled towards the door and made an unnecessarily overdramatic display of closing the door behind him—really slowly. I nearly flung my shoe at him, (nearly), if it weren't for the belated realization I had that Clary and I were finally alone again.

I involuntarily tensed. Three months ago, this—us being together in the same room, unsupervised—would have been dangerous, as proven by my many reckless past choices. But now, all I felt was awkward, and if I were being completely honest with myself, a tad bit apprehensive. I still haven't had the chance of a heart-to-heart with Clary yet.

Not five minutes after our tearful reunion, a nurse had come in for a routinely check on Clary's condition. When she saw that their coma patient was finally awake, she'd immediately called for Clary's doctor, who then ran further tests on her to make sure that everything was okay and as they should be. We hadn't had a single moment of peace since then, especially after one of the nurses had informed Clary's family and they'd rushed over, resulting in more tears of joy and relief, and consequently, Valentine's papa bear scene—

"We should talk," Clary said, interrupting my scattered thoughts. She looked at me shyly. "I already know what's on your mind...so why don't you ask me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Jace," Clary said in a more frustrated tone. "I told you—I heard everything you told me while I was asleep. I heard you ask me…" She looked away, unable to complete her sentence.

I swallowed. The elephant in the room was obvious, but I was scared to ask. What if I didn't like what I found out? But if Clary was the one to initiate it... "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" I asked quietly.

She smiled at me weakly. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" she asked, though I could tell that her heart wasn't in it. I watched her as she wrung her fingers together, mostly out of a nervous habit.

"I asked myself the same question so many times too," she said, her face distant as if she were remembering. I placed my hand on top of hers, hoping that the contact would comfort her as much as it comforted me. She sighed and looked at me.

"I told myself that I was trying to spare you from the inevitable pain of losing me. You have to understand, Jace. I have an extremely rare blood type. Just finding a blood donor is hard enough, but to find a compatible heart… It was a really slim chance. I had myself believing that I was a lost cause. It made me so depressed.

"And then I thought about you and...I became so paranoid. My brain had me thinking that if you did stay with me, it would be out of pity—" I opened my mouth to protest but she gave me a look that said, 'let me finish'. I slumped back into my chair and nodded obediently.

"Now that I think back on it, I realize that I was just being selfish. I assumed the worst—that you would eventually grow tired of our relationship and cheat on me. In the end, I made the decision to not tell you to spare myself from having to face that pain. I convinced myself it would be better if you did hate me. It would have been easier for you if I died—"

"Stop," I said, unable to hear anymore of it. I told myself that I didn't want to be angry with her, but I was—to an extent anyway. The fact that she made that big of a decision (one that she knew would affect me) on her own, made my blood boil with rage. And for her to assume the worst of me… Did she really think that lowly of me?

"Do you love me, Clary?" My voice was emotionless and I stared at her blankly.

"Yes."

"Do you trust me then? When I tell you that I love you, do you believe me?"

Clary bit her lip and shuddered as if she were trying to repress her tears. "Honestly? At that time, I didn't." She looked down and squeezed my hand tentatively. My heart stung at her admission, and for a fleeting second, I felt compelled to make a bitter comment. I didn't though.

"But I believe you now," she said softly. "Everything you said to me while I was in that coma…everything you did...it made me realize how much of a stupid idiot I was for not telling you sooner. I know it shouldn't have taken a near-death situation for me to come to my senses, but at the same time, if given the choice, I wouldn't take it back.

"Look at it this way—Everything that happened up until this point has been nothing but a blessing in disguise. Yes, we could have stopped ourselves from hurting each other the way we did, but everything that happened, it made us stronger. I think I love you a lot more now than I did over a year ago."

Unable to help myself, I stared at her then, searching her face, her eyes, for a semblance of sincerity. What I saw quelled the anger and bitterness in my heart. There was nothing but truth and honesty in them. She loved me. Everything else that had happened before...the pain and anger and desolation that came with it...none of it mattered in relative to what we had now. She was right; we were stronger. The only logical thing to do next was to move forward with our lives and to leave behind whatever negative feelings we had towards each other.

"You think?" I asked in a more teasing tone. I leaned forward in my seat until my elbows were resting on her bed.

Clary smiled. "I know." She rolled at her eyes at me when I cracked a huge grin. "Don't get so cocky."

"You have to admit it though—my cockiness is one of my most endearing traits," I smirked.

"Followed by you being a jackass?"

"Hmm. Just like being a smart-mouth is your endearing trait."

"Hey!"

"What? It's true…" I gently took her wrist in my grip and gave it a tender kiss.

"Just promise me one thing?" She nodded. "Promise me you won't keep secrets from me anymore. If there's something bothering you, tell me instead of making assumptions."

"I promise, Jace," she said, ruffling my hair gently. "I'm sorry…"

"I'm sorry too," I shook my head, ready to launch into a full speech about how much I hated myself for doing all the stupid things I did. I didn't think I could ever get past how much I'd hurt her and abandoned her at a time when she probably needed me the most. I was a poor excuse of a boyfriend—the absolute worst. "Everything—"

"No!" Clary shouted, much to my own astonishment. She gave me an apologetic look and blushed sheepishly. "I told you—I know. Please don't make me listen to you apologize again. You have no idea how much I wanted to shut you up the entire time."

"Ouch," I narrowed my eyes at her. "Way to kill a man's ego, Clarissa."

She shrugged. "I know other things too. Like how you spent the first two weeks by my bed side and refused to take a shower," she continued. "And then Alec had to practically drag you to the toilet and later force-feed you because you wouldn't eat…"

"Okay, okay. I get it. You know," I scratched the back of my neck, embarrassed. Then something about what she said hit me. If she'd heard everything I ever said…

"I'm assuming you heard my proposal too then," I said, eyeing her cautiously.

"Your proposal?"

"Yes, Clary. I proposed to you," I said. "Several times—this morning too, I think."

She looked infuriatingly nonchalant. "Oh…that. Yup, I heard that too."

Antsy, I finally stood up from that bloody chair and glared at her. "That's all you have to say to me? 'Yup, I heard that too'?"

"Be nice to me, Jace Herondale. I'm a patient here."

"Well, I have been patient," I told her, frustrated. "You're really killing me here, Clary. Just tell me already—"

"Fine!" She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Jonathan was right."

I swore to God, this woman was driving me insane with all her cryptic, standoffish answers. One answer! That was all I was asking for—an answer!

"What does Jonathan have anything to do with this?" I almost cried.

"Geez, calm down, Jace! God, you're so slow." She pressed her palms into her closed eyes and slowly rubbed them as if I was the one giving her a headache.

"When I said that Jonathan was right, I was referring to the conversation you had with him this morning," she explained to me as if I were a child.

I frowned deeply at her until my mind finally registered what she was talking about. Instantly, my eyes widened into the size of saucers and my jaw dropped. My heart thudded wildly in my chest as I gaped at her smirking face. Oh my God. She was right—

I was slow.

"Jonathan was right because I'm saying yes, Jace. I'll marry you."

A/N: Happy endings as always because I ship Clace. I would never kill either Clary and Jace in my stories...NEVER.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews last chapter! For my returning readers, welcome back and thank you for your support :)