Page 76 of The Heartstrings of Harry
“I hate it there,” he admitted, eyes still fixed on the label of his beer. “I hate feeling like I have to be somebody else all the time. I hate that I can’t just…be.I can’t slow down, I can’t breathe. I can’t hold your hand. I can’t even talk about you because you live inthisworld… and I live inthatone… and all I wanna do is be back here withyou.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and I felt my chest ache.
“I wish I could stay here,” he murmured, finally looking up at me. “I wish I could stay withyou.Forever.”
I reached out, one hand against the side of his face, thumb brushing softly across his cheek. “I wish you could stay too.”
Dean leaned into my hand, closing his eyes for a second, like he was holding onto the touch.
“You know what kills me the most?” I said quietly. “It’s not the distance. It’s not LA. It’s not even the fans. It’s knowing you’re out there and some sick bastard’s got his eyes on you. Watching you. Following you. Threatening you.” I shook my head, jaw tight. “If I ever get my hands on him…”
I didn’t even finish the sentence. I didn’t need to.
Dean’s hand slid onto my thigh, gentle, grounding. “I…” he whispered, his voice sounding lost, meek, young. “I don’t wanna talk about that tonight.”
I nodded, taking a long breath, letting the anger ease out of my shoulders. “I get it.”
Dean gave me a soft smile, eyes shining. “You know what I wish?”
“What’s that?”
“I wish I’d brought my guitar,” he said, leaning back against the couch, head tipping to the side. “I don’t wanna play stadium rock right now. I just wanna sit here with you and play something slow. Something beautiful. Just for you.”
I stared at him for a second, then stood up without a word.
Dean blinked, confused, watching me cross the room.
I opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs.
I reached in and pulled out my guitar.
When I turned back around, Dean was sitting forward on the edge of the couch, eyes wide.
“Harry,” he breathed, shocked. “You never told me you had a guitar.”
I felt my face go a little red, gave a sheepish shrug. “I, uh… I was too embarrassed.”
Dean stood, closing the space between us, looking at me like I’d just told him I could fly. “Youplay?”
“No! God, no! Maybe a little,” I admitted. “I’m terrible at it. I only bought it so I could… well…” I scratched the back of my neck, feeling like an idiot. “So I could learn to play your songs.”
Dean’s eyes went soft, the tension melting out of him all at once.
“I… I just wanted to feel close to you,” I mumbled, not quite able to meet his gaze. “Every time I played one of your songs, it felt like… like you were here. Here with me.”
Dean reached for the guitar slowly, carefully, like it was something precious. Like he understood exactly what it meant.
“Can I?” he asked softly.
I nodded, handing it over.
He settled back onto the couch, adjusted the strap, gave the strings a gentle strum, tuning by ear. His fingers moved slow and sure, practiced, the notes warm and soft in the quiet room.
Then he looked up at me, looked straight into my eyes. “Can I play something for you?” he asked quietly.
I smiled and sighed with utter joy. “Please. Yes, please.”
The first few chords were soft, familiar. It took me a second to place it—but then the melody hit me, and my heart caught in my throat.
