Page 26

HARRY

The sky had turned to gold and violet by the time the crowd really surged in—ten -thousand bodies packed tight against the barricades, a sea of arms waving, phones held high, the air electric with the buzz of anticipation.

I was halfway between the dressing room marquee and the lighting rig when I spotted him.

Andy.

His cap was low, arms crossed as he stood leaning against the security fence at the edge of the perimeter, jaw tight, eyes hard.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

“Andy,” I tried to call over the noise, quickening my pace, weaving past a cluster of stagehands.

He saw me coming, straightened up, then swiftly turned away.

“Andy— wait! ” I was close enough for him to hear me over the crowd now.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Harry,” he snapped over his shoulder, already walking faster along the perimeter line.

“ Bullshit! ” I caught up, staying on his heels. “You don’t just get to walk away from a lifetime of friendship like it’s nothing.”

He spun on me then, eyes blazing. “No, you don’t get to stand there and talk about friendship after what you did!”

“What I did? ” I threw my hands out, breath already tight. “Andy, I fell in love with your son. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t go looking for it, but it happened. And you know what? I’m not sorry.”

His face darkened, lips pressing into a hard line. “You should be.”

I stepped closer, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I know this hurts. I know it’s a lot. But dammit, Andy—you know me. You know I would never, never hurt him. I love him.”

Andy’s jaw clenched. “You couldn’t have picked anyone else?”

“It doesn’t work like that!” I shot back. “I didn’t pick Dean like I was choosing a goddamn wrench off the shelf! I love him because he’s him. Because he’s good, and kind, and brilliant, and he makes me feel like maybe I’m not just some tired old man running a hardware store. He makes me feel like I’m somebody. ”

Andy shook his head, eyes still flashing with anger. “You’re twice his age, Harry.”

“I know,” I said, swallowing hard. “And you can hate me for that if you want. You can hate me for the way you found out about it. But don’t tell me what I feel isn’t real.”

The crowd started screaming then—a roar like thunder rolling across the park.

Astrid’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Music-lovers, please welcome to the stage—the one, the only, Dean Reeves!”

The place exploded with excitement.

Andy’s eyes drifted toward the stage, jaw still tight. I could see the hurt in him, the stubborn twist of his mouth, but beneath it… I could see the worry… the love of a father for his son.

“I know you’re angry,” I said, softer now. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came out the way it did. But Dean and me—we’re not gonna stop. We can’t. We’re in this now. And I hope one day you can come around to that. But if it takes time… if it takes years … then so be it. I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes for us to be friends again.”

Andy didn’t answer. His shoulders stayed stiff, his fists clenched at his sides.

On stage, Dean’s voice rang out through the night, clear and strong, the first few lines of the opening song sending the crowd into a frenzy.

The bass thumped beneath my feet, lights flashing wild across the faces of the fans pressed tight against the front barricades. The screaming was deafening.

But something—something felt off.

I caught it out of the corner of my eye.

A ripple in the crowd near stage right.

Not the usual concert surge.

Not just people bouncing or dancing.

It was more like panic.

A shove. Then another. People were turning, shouting.

My stomach dropped.

“Andy,” I breathed, my eyes glued to the movement at the edge of the pit. “Something’s wrong.”

He followed my gaze, frowning, then straightened. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said, already moving. “But I’m gonna find out.”

I pushed past the crew barricade, down into the pit, heart pounding, eyes scanning the crowd. The roar of the music blurred with the rising edge of shouting voices, hands waving, a crush of bodies turning against each other.

Please God, don’t let it be the stalker.

I charged into the chaos.

It all happened so fast.

One minute, the crowd was screaming the way crowds do—wild, excited, waving signs, jumping in time to the music. Normal. Controlled.

And then it wasn’t.

A shove here, a push there.

People shouting, arms going up—not in celebration, but in panic.

Bodies surged forward, pressing against the barricades, crushing toward the stage like a goddamn tidal swell. A surge of fans screaming, climbing, clawing over each other, trying to push their way up onto the platform.

I saw Astrid at the sound booth, headset clamped on, one hand jabbing furiously toward the security team, shouting orders I couldn’t hear over the roar.

The guards moved fast—an army of black shirts flooding the perimeter—but it wasn’t enough. The crush of bodies overwhelmed them, fans pouring over the barricades like it wasn’t even there.

Jesus Christ.

Dean’s voice faltered—mid-song, off-mic—but I could still hear him shout, “ Stop! Stop! Hey, back up—! ”

The music cut out, the amps buzzing into dead silence, but the screaming only got louder.

Light stands toppled as the first fans reached the stage, knocking over the camera rig, cables snapping, sparks showering down like fireworks gone wrong. Someone shoved one of the lighting trusses—it groaned, then collapsed with a deafening crash, sending a spray of shattered bulbs and metal shards across the floor.

I saw one of the side curtains burst into flames where a spotlight smashed into it.

The smoke started to rise.

Screams became deafening.

People were running in every direction, security guards trying to push back the surge, fire extinguishers blasting clouds of white across the stage—but the panic was already out of the bottle.

And somewhere in that mess—somewhere in the chaos—was my boy.

Dean stood frozen near center stage, eyes wide, body rigid, his guitar still strapped across him, breath coming hard and fast. Helpless. Terrified.

Please God—please let me get to him.

I charged forward, shoving my way through the bodies, knocking people aside as they climbed up onto the lip of the stage. A kid in a Dean Reeves T-shirt tried to grab the edge of a speaker stack—I yanked him down by the back of his collar and pushed him out of the way.

I didn’t care who they were; didn’t care if they were kids, fans, stalkers, or just scared out of their minds.

All I cared about was Dean.

I scrambled up onto the stage, ducking a flying elbow, barely dodging a toppled mic stand as it clattered down beside me. One of the pyrotechnic panels gave off sparks and smoke.

“ Dean! ” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

His head turned in my direction, eyes locking on mine—and the terror on his face was enough to make my knees damn near buckle.

I didn’t hesitate.

I pushed past the people scrambling onto the stage, grabbed Dean, scooped him straight into my arms. His hands clung to my shoulders, desperate, gasping.

“ Harry! ”

“I got you,” I panted. “ I got you, babe. ”

The surge of fans kept coming, more of them clambering onto the stage, climbing over monitors, grabbing at the scaffolding, screaming Dean’s name like they weren’t even seeing the panic they were causing.

I dropped my shoulder, barreling through them like a linebacker, shoving bodies aside as I fought my way toward the backstage entrance.

“ Move! ” I roared, my voice loud and furious. “ Get the fuck out of the way! ”

Dean’s arms clung tighter around my neck, his breath hot against my ear. “ Harry—”

“ I’m here. I’ve got you. ” My grip tightened, sweeping him up higher in my arms, carrying him like he weighed nothing.

We hit the curtain line at the side of the stage just as another crash echoed behind us—another truss going down, cables sparking, smoke filling the air.

I pushed through the side entrance, burst into the green-room marquee—but fans were already breaking through, spilling into the backstage space, pushing past the rattling fence line.

“Harry!” Dean gasped, eyes wide, coughing from the smoke. “ We gotta get outta here—get me home. Please—get me back to my room. Now! ”

I didn’t stop to argue.

Didn’t stop to think.

I just tightened my hold on him, turned on my heel, and ran for my truck.

* * *

His bedroom studio was quiet and dim, the curtains drawn tight against the outside world. The sounds of chaos from the concert felt a lifetime away, but the panic was still in his eyes.

I cupped his face, my thumbs brushing his cheek as I kissed him softly—once, twice—trying to slow the thundering pace of both our hearts.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice low, gentle.

Dean shook his head, eyes glassy. “No.”

I stroked my thumb along his jaw, feeling the tremble under my fingers. “It’s alright, babe. You’re safe. I’m here.”

But Dean pulled back a little, lips pressing tight together. There was something else beneath the panic. I could sense something weighing down on him, threatening to break him. “Dean? What is it?”

“I need to ask you something,” he whispered, pacing across the room toward his desk.

“Anything,” I said. “You can ask me anything.”

He turned to face me, hands gripping the edge of the desk like he needed to hold onto something solid.

“If I told you… if I told you I’d done something bad…” His voice cracked. “Would you still love me?”

My chest tightened. I crossed the room to him, closing the space between us, my hands resting lightly on his arms.

“Dean,” I said softly. “ Of course I would. I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t say a word. He only swallowed hard, nodded once, then turned and reached into the top drawer of the desk.

When he faced me again, he was holding a copy of Rolling Stone magazine.

There was a picture of him on the cover—shirtless, hair messy, electric guitar in one hand, red leather pants unbuttoned just a little and a smoldering look on his face that made my knees feel weak.

“Is this it?” I asked. “Is this the something ‘bad’?”

Dean held it out to me, eyes downcast. “Look at it.”

I took it from him, frowning, confused. I flipped it over, tapped the cover. “Babe, you look fucking hotter than hell. This isn’t bad. This is great.”

Dean didn’t smile. He didn’t even look up.

“Look inside, ” he said quietly.

I opened the magazine, flipping through the glossy pages, past the interview spread, past the double-page photo shoot of Dean looking so damn fuckable it made me hard.

But that’s not what he wanted me to look at.

It took me a second to notice.

The headlines on some of the pages… little pieces of them were missing. Tiny chunks of words clipped out, leaving awkward gaps in the page titles. Letters gone here and there. Sliced so clean I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t looking closely.

I flipped faster, my brow furrowing deeper.

Then I found it.

Tucked between two pages, half -folded, was a piece of paper.

My stomach dropped before I even unfolded it.

The letters that had been cut out from the magazine headlines were pasted onto the sheet of paper in uneven rows.

This will be your last—

The message stopped there.

Unfinished.

My throat went dry.

I stared at the paper, then back down at the magazine in my hands, and my mind reeled—adding it up, the missing letters, the cut headlines, the careful, deliberate placement.

I lifted my eyes to Dean.

He was watching me.

Silent.

Fragile.

His chest rising and falling too fast, fingers white-knuckled against the desk.

“Dean?” My voice caught.

The room swayed a little under my feet.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think straight.

The horror of it crept in, slow, cold.

“Dean…” My grip tightened on the magazine, my heart pounding so hard I felt sick. “Babe… are you— ”

I couldn’t finish the question.

I didn’t have to.

The truth was already written in the way Dean couldn’t meet my eyes, in the tremor of his hands, in the tears now sliding down his cheeks.

The stalker…

It was him.