Page 22

HARRY

By the time I 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.

“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 in this world… and I live in that one… and all I wanna do is be back here with you .”

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 with you. 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. “You play? ”

“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.

Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper, soft and low, rich with feeling as he played a slow, aching version of Dido’s “Here With Me.”

The lyrics wrapped around the room like a lullaby, like a confession, every word soaked in longing.

And as he sang, I surrendered myself to every emotion oozing out of those lyrics—

I didn’t want to go…

I didn’t want to sleep…

I didn’t want to breathe …

Until he was resting there with me… forever.

I sank down onto the couch beside him, eyes never leaving his face. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The way his fingers moved, gentle and easy across the strings, like the guitar was just an extension of him.

God, he was beautiful.

He was everything .

When the song ended, he let the last chord hang there, soft and sweet, fading into the hush between us until I leaned in, kissing him slowly, kissing him sweetly, easing the guitar out of his arms. I put it on the coffee table and said—

“Come here.”

Before Dean could so much as blink, I swept him right off the couch, arms sliding under his back and behind his knees, lifting him into my arms.

“ Harry! ” he gasped, laughing, hands flying up to clutch my shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed,” I said simply, starting toward the stairs. “You can complain about it if you want, but it won’t change the plan.”

Dean grinned, biting his bottom lip. “No complaints here.”

“Good.” I grinned, holding him tighter as I climbed the stairs.

By the time we reached the bedroom, his smile had softened again, those big blue eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing in the world.

I nudged the door open with my foot, carried him across the room, and laid him down gently on my bed, soft sheets just waiting for him, warm lamplight casting shadows on the walls.

Dean sat up on his elbows, still smiling, but then his eyes flicked to the nightstand.

I followed his gaze.

There it was—right there beside the lamp—the framed signed photo of him.

Dean’s smile broadened. “You… you keep it by the bed?”

I shrugged. “Well, you weren’t here with me. So it was the best I could do.” I grabbed it and opened the drawer to stash it away.

He caught sight of the novel in my drawer. “Is that a romance novel?”

It was in fact.

Mistral’s Daughter by Judith Krantz.

“Stop snooping! Do you mind?”

He giggled as I tucked both the photo and the novel away in the drawer. “Now, if you’re done fucking with the mood…!”

Dean grinned. “I am. There’s something else I’d much rather be fucking.” He let out a breathy laugh, his hands sliding into my hair, pulling me down to kiss him harder.

Suddenly clothes began peeling away between hungry kisses. My shirt hit the floor first, then his. I couldn’t stop touching him—his chest, his waist, the soft curve of his hips. I wanted to memorize every inch of him, every freckle, every line.

He gasped when I pushed him back against the pillows, my mouth trailing down his neck, across his collarbone, tasting his skin.

I kissed my way down his chest, pausing to suck his nipple, making him shudder beneath me, before sliding lower, nipping at the line of his stomach as I worked open his designer jeans and tugged them down.

He was already hard, throbbing, aching, and the soft little sounds he made when I kissed the head of his cock were enough to make me groan right back.

But I didn’t want to rush.

I wanted him to feel every second of it.

I wanted to make this count, like we were only now starting to make up for so much lost time.

I reached for the lube and the condom from the nightstand drawer—always prepared, always hoping, even when I hadn’t dared believe this would ever actually happen again.

Dean watched me, eyes hungry with need, lips parted, breath shaky.

“God how I want you,” he whispered. “Fuck, Harry… I want you so bad.”

I slicked my fingers, reached down between his legs, and worked him open slowly, gently, my own body quivering at the way he gasped…

The way his hips rolled up to meet my touch…

Needing more from me…

Needing everything from me.

“Be mine,” I said, leaning down to kiss him again as I slid my fingers deeper, stretching him open until he was trembling beneath me.

“I am yours,” he breathed. “I always have been.”

I rolled the condom on, lubed myself up, guided myself inside him, inch by inch, watching his face the whole time—watching the way his lips parted on a soft, broken moan, the way his eyes fluttered shut, fingers tightening around my wrist.

“God, yes… Harry, yes! ” he gasped, back arching, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me in deeper.

I gave him a second, let him settle, leaned down and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips.

“You okay? Everything okay?” I asked softly, brushing the hair back from his face.

Dean smiled, nodding. “Everything’s perfect.”

I started to move, slow and steady, rolling my hips into him, burying myself deep with every thrust.

Dean moaned beneath me, clinging tight, meeting every push with a lift of his hips, breathing my name over and over like it was the only word he knew.

“Harry… Harry… Harry!”

I groaned, dipping down to kiss him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, our bodies moving together like we’d done this a thousand times before. Like we were made for it.

The tension built fast, heat twisting low in my belly, my balls ascending quickly. I reached between us, wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts.

Dean came almost immediately, years of pent-up lust gushing from him like I’d just broken his dam wall with a wrecking ball.

He cried out, letting loose a deluge of hot cum between us, body clenching down hard around me as he came, shaking beneath me, breathless and beautiful and helpless as his seed bloomed all over us.

As the convulsions ripped through his body—as his ass muscles crushed my cock—I let out a guttural cry and came inside him, hips bucking, groaning his name as I buried myself deep one last time, the world blurring around the edges as the pleasure tore through me.

When it was done, I collapsed against him, heart pounding, panting, drained.

“Stay,” he whispered, his voice soft and sleepy. “Stay inside me. It’s where you belong.”

I kissed his neck. “Anything for you.”

That night, we slept with our bodies pressed tight together.

We slept as one.