Chapter 12 #2
“I’m sorry,” Mark said again. “I know trust matters here, I know I haven’t earned it yet. I will. I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right—with the pack, and with the town.”
George clicked his tongue, unconvinced.
I felt something warm settle in my chest. Mark could’ve explained himself.
Could’ve talked about being new to the pack, about Theo’s taunting, about how it hadn’t been his fault alone.
But he didn’t. He just owned it.
I reached out and took his hand. His fingers went still before curling around mine. I gave his knuckles a small, reassuring rub. Then I looked back at the parents.
“We’ll do whatever we can to make sure the Winter Festival is safe,” I went on. “For everyone. And if it helps, if it makes anyone more comfortable, we can step back from the performance.”
Mark’s head snapped toward me, eyes searching my face. Before the silence could stretch, someone scoffed lightly.
“That’s not necessary,” one of the parents said, reaching out to clap George on the back a little harder than needed. “Let it go.”
George’s son chose that moment to tug insistently at his father’s hand. “Dad,” he said, loud and earnest, “I wanna see Mr. Zack play on New Year’s.”
A few people laughed.
Mrs. Lim shook her head, expression softening as she looked between Mark and me. “That’s not necessary,” she said. “Anyone can make a mistake. No one was hurt, and that’s what matters.”
She turned to me, smiling. “Thank you for the class, as always, Zack. Daisy had a great time. We’re looking forward to your performance.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. Parents soon began to trickle out, the tension dissolving into goodbyes and casual chatter.
As the door swung closed behind the last of them, the shop felt lighter. Mark was still holding my hand. Neither of us let go.
Mark picked up the guitar case again, fingers worrying at the handle like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. When he looked up, his expression was hopeful but guarded.
“I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “And I get it if you haven’t fully forgiven me yet.” He hesitated, then added, “But earlier, when you said we…I just wanted to make sure. You’re still okay performing with me?”
I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “Of course I am.”
The relief that crossed his face was instant and almost comical, like he’d been holding his breath since the rehearsal.
“And,” I went on, softer, “I might’ve overreacted a bit too.”
Mark shook his head. “It was your dad’s guitar,” he said. “Actually, I came by because you weren’t answering my messages. I didn’t want to push, but I still wanted to help. I found a specialist who works on vintage guitars.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You mean Safino’s?”
He blinked. “Yeah. How do you know them?”
I smiled despite myself. “He’s an old friend of my dad’s. The only one around here I’d trust with something like that.” I hesitated, then added, “already brought it in this morning, actually.”
“Oh.”
His face went through about four emotions in quick succession: disappointment, relief, confusion, and something that might’ve been hope.
It was kind of adorable. And suddenly, painfully, I wanted to pull him in and kiss him right there.
I pushed myself off the counter, body already angling toward him—
And Mark turned to set the guitar case he’d been holding down on the counter. I crossed my arms, hands suddenly unsure of themselves. That was when I really looked at the case.
It wasn’t his. It was sleek and new.
I frowned. “What’s this?”
Mark swallowed. “I, uh… I got you a guitar.”
He flipped the case open. Inside was a beautiful instrument. It had a glossy finish, solid body, hardware that gleamed under the shop lights.
It was the kind of guitar you didn’t just pick up on a whim.
“This is…” I trailed off, still staring.
Mark rushed on, words tumbling out. “I can return it. If you want something different. Or if you’d rather pick one out yourself, whatever you prefer. I just thought—”
I finally looked up at him, my chest fluttering in that uncomfortable, warm way.
“Mark,” I said gently.
I’d been thinking about retiring my dad’s guitar, letting it rest. Lately, using it felt less like playing and more like holding something precious, afraid I’d damage it just by loving it too much.
I’d planned to use it one last time on New Year’s Eve, and for our practice run tomorrow at Griffin’s, I thought I’d just borrow something from Noah. I didn’t need a new guitar.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You do know I mostly play drums now, right?”
He gave a small, nervous smile. “I know.”
“What if I don’t even use this after our performance?” I went on. “I can’t accept it. It’s—” I gestured helplessly. “It’s too expensive.”
He didn’t argue. He just stepped closer and lifted the guitar from the case, letting me take it into my hands.
And damn it. I told myself I was just going to look. That I’d hand it right back. Instead, I brushed my fingers along the body.
The finish was smooth, warm under my palm. When I wrapped my hand around the neck, the fit was instinctive, like my fingers already knew where to go. The weight sat just right against my torso, balanced in a way that made my shoulders relax without me meaning to.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.
I shook myself and set the guitar back into its case. “But I really can’t,” I said. “Or at least let me pay you.”
Mark reached out and caught my hand before I could close the latches.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked quietly.
That did it. I stepped into him, hands sliding up to curl around the back of his neck. “I told you, there’s nothing to forgive,” I said, and kissed him.
His hands settled at my waist, pulling me closer. I nipped his lower lip, tugging just enough to make him hiss.
My fingers slid into his hair then, pulling him back harder than I meant to.
Mark tried to lean in, but I held him there. “How much was it?”
He hummed, lips curving, and tipped forward again. I caught his jaw, thumb brushing over his mouth.
His lips met it instantly. I tightened my grip, fingers firm along his jawline.
“Mark,” I said, low. “How much.”
He sighed and stepped back, now out of reach. “I really don’t mind paying.”
“I do,” I said immediately. “I can’t accept it otherwise.”
His hands slid to my hips anyway, resting there like he couldn’t help himself. His thumbs traced small, absent circles that made it very hard to stay focused.
I missed the heat of him already. Missed the way he’d felt pressed against me. I wanted out of the shop.
So I exhaled and said, “You pay for my dad’s guitar repairs. I’ll pay you back for this one.”
He opened his mouth to argue. I gave him a look.
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Fine. Deal.”
I leaned in and kissed him once more, quick and decisive. “Okay,” I said, smiling. “Now let’s get out of here.”