Page 75 of The Heartstrings of Harry
“No,” he replied, already pocketing the cash.
I slipped the magazine under my jacket as casually as I could and hurried out the door.
HARRY
By the timeI made it home, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.
It was the kind of tiredness that settles in your bones and makes even your boots feel heavier than they should. My back ached from hauling gear and solving other people’s problems all day. My head throbbed from the endless questions, the near misses, the small disasters barely dodged.
And I hadn’t seen Dean since Astrid pulled him off the stage for that break. Not a glimpse. Not a wave. Not even a stolen look.
I’d been scanning the field every chance I got, but nothing.
I sighed as I stepped up onto the porch in the dark, fishing for my keys in the pocket of my jeans. The porch light was off, and I flipped the switch. The bulb flickered once, then buzzed to life—and my heart damn near jumped out of my chest.
Dean was standing at the far end of the porch, half -hidden in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, head down like he wasn’t sure if he should be here at all.
“Jesus, Dean,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He looked up then, eyes soft and tired, and God, if that didn’t undo me all over again.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to… I just. I wanted to be with you.”
I stepped closer, my heartbeat still racing, but not from the fright anymore. “Are you okay? Where have you been all afternoon?”
“I… snuck off. After Astrid sent me on break, I turned my phone off. Figured I could deal with the fifty angry voicemails later.”
I smiled and the slump of his shoulders against my chest felt good.
“Can I…?” His voice trailed off before he tried again. “Can I hide out at your place tonight?”
I reached for him without thinking, my hand brushing against his arm gently.
“Dean,” I said softly. “You can stay here as long as you like. You can stay here forever if you want.”
He let out a breath, shaky but relieved, eyes lifting to meet mine fully now. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, stepping aside, holding the door open for him. “C’mon in.”
I followed him inside, closing the door quietly behind us.
Dean kicked off his boots by the door, moving slowly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax yet. Like he was still half on stage, waiting for someone to tell him where to stand, what to do.
I headed to the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the tops, and brought them over. I handed one to him as I sank down onto the couch.
Dean took it with a small, grateful smile, sitting beside me, close but not quite touching.
For a long moment, we just sat there in the quiet.
Dean took a sip of his beer, stared down at the bottle in his hands, then—
“I’m done,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
I turned toward him, brow creased. “Done with what?”
“With… all of it. LA. The scene. The whole rock-star thing.” He shook his head, lips pressing tight together. “It’s not the dream I thought it’d be. It’s fast and loud and… fake. It’s just not me.”
I watched him for a second, let him talk. Let him say it out loud.
