Page 24 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I never would’ve thought that spending three weeks’ worth of babysitting money on something that’s not even for me would make me this happy, but here we are.

Never mind the fact that I’m going to be flat broke and struggling to buy myself more painting supplies for a while. I don’t care if I have to babysit every day.

As long as Kane gets to play the guitar again.

I’m so excited to show it to him that I almost trip over my own feet on my way to the backyard.

My heart is hammering in my chest by the time I reach the shed. Kane’s in there. I can hear him humming melodies on the other side of the door.

Normally, I’d hold off for a bit, wait outside and soak up every beautiful note his vocal cords produce, but the anticipation is killing me, so I don’t waste another second and swing the door open.

He’s sitting on the couch when I come in, his focus directed to the lyrics he’s tweaking and his phone on his lap.

“About time, Hads,” he says, so engulfed in his writing process that he doesn’t spare me a glance.

I grin. “Sorry, I had to stop and get something on the way.”

Then he looks up.

And his face goes blank.

I wait for him to say something. Anything to help me translate the thoughts behind his eyes, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just stares at the guitar case I’m carrying without blinking.

Is he having a stroke?

On autopilot, I undo the case and pull out the black guitar I spent my last hundred dollars on, hoping that showing it to him will earn me some sort of reaction.

He pushes to his feet but says nothing.

Shit, what if he thinks I got him a guitar out of pity?

Or that I see him as a charity case?

What was I thinking?

I step closer. “I know what you’re going to say. You never asked me to get you a guitar, and maybe I’m overstepping, and I completely understand if you’re mad at me, but I think you’re amazing, and it would be such a shame for your talent to go to waste, and I—”

I can’t finish my sentence.

Because his arms are around me.

Holding me.

Suffocating me.

His embrace feels like more than a hug.

It’s like he’s afraid that I’m going to disappear if he doesn’t squeeze me hard enough.

I feel light-headed, and it isn’t long before I start to wonder if asphyxiation by hugging is a thing.

The warmth of his body transfers onto mine, and I wait for him to speak.

Still, he says nothing.

He just hugs me.

Seconds elapse before my brain reboots itself, and I return his embrace. I wrap my arms around his body, resting my cheek against his chest.