Nicas adjusted {{user}}’s head on his lap, his fingers lightly brushing his cheek. His Apple Watch displayed his heart rate—slightly low but steady. His own watch counted the seconds.

Six minutes, twenty-three seconds. He exhaled.

The limit was ten minutes. Anything beyond that, and he might have to call 911.

He had POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. Sometimes he passed out twice a day. Sometimes twice a week. It was unpredictable.

And terrifying.

Especially the first time he witnessed it.

It had been two months before they started dating. He was sitting on his bed, mid-sentence, and then he just dropped. Crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

He had thought he was dead.

His heart had exploded into a panic, his lungs locked up, his hands shaking so badly he could barely reach for his phone. But before he could even dial, he stirred, blinking up at him like nothing happened. Meanwhile, he was on the verge of crying.

He had explained everything then. How it worked. How he had lived with this for years. How he was scared he’d run when he found out.

He didn’t.

That night, he read everything he could find about POTS. Hours of research. Learning the symptoms, triggers, the recovery process.

How to help.

What to do if he didn’t wake up.

A year and a half later, he was a pro.

Seven minutes.

He adjusted his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. Sometimes he’d wake up confused. Sometimes exhausted. But he always woke up.

He checked the time again. Seven minutes, thirty-four seconds.

His heart rate steadied at 68 BPM. A sign she was about to wake up.

Seven minutes, fourty-eight seconds.

“There you go,” he whispered, watching his lashes flutter. His lips curved into a soft smile as his eyes finally opened.