“I’m nervous.” I wipe my hands along my jeans for the twelfth time, the handle of my guitar case slick with sweat.

Kara presses up on her toes, looking around the hall before she kisses me lightly on the lips. Since we decided to make this real, she’d been doing things like that. And my heart had been strumming constantly like a well-tuned Gibson.

“You’re going to be great. Believe me, they’re more nervous to meet you then you are them.”

She looks so sexy in her white doctor’s coat that I can’t help but swoop in for one more kiss, this time lingering a bit longer.

“Okay. I think I can go in now.” I breathe, trying to steel myself and tightening my stomach muscles.

The sign signaling the burn unit hangs in big block letters over the automatic doors, and my stomach drops as I follow her in. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, come to work with Kara, but I’ve been a chicken. A grown man who can’t handle to see how badly burned these children are, even though my fiancée does this multiple times a week. She tends to them, laughs with them, sees them for the beautiful people they are.

I’m more nervous about my own reaction being poor than I am about singing for them. It’s selfish and really uncool, to be honest, but I can’t help the way I feel. I wanted to be sure I could have my wits about me before I went in, and I think that makes me less of an asshole for being able to admit that.

With guitar case in hand, I follow Kara down the corridor that looks like any other part of the hospital. It doesn’t smell in the way I thought it would, although she’d warned me that I might be sickened by the scent at first. It mostly smells … medical. Like antiseptic or cleaning products. I’m thankful that my nostrils are not overwhelmingly hit with anything, because I want to be able to give her patients a top-notch private concert.

“Hey guys, I have someone special here who wanted to say hi.” Her tone is all friendly doctor, and pride swells in my chest that the woman I love does such amazing things for a living.

“Hi everyone.” I wave while walking into the room.

The room I walk into is essentially a playroom, but completely upgraded. It has a flat screen on one wall, and a bank of laptops neatly organized at a row of desks on the other. There is a colorful carpet covered in toys, and around the room sit probably about two dozen children. Some sitting on the floor, some in wheel chairs, others not even looking up because they’re heads are stuck in their tablets.

“Oh my God!” A girl who looks about twelve is the first to say something, and she rushes over to me. “Dr. O’Connor, you did not tell us that you were bringing him today!”

The young girl gives Kara a stink-eye, and then throws her arms around my waist in a huge hug. Looking down, I wrap my free arm around her and laugh, while noticing the wrinkled skin at the back of her neck, moving down into the hospital gown that closes half-way down her back.

“You’re that singer, right?” A boy, about nine, eyes me cautiously.

“Eh, sometimes I consider myself that.” I shrug, moving into the room and taking a seat.

I want to make them feel comfortable, and honestly, sitting among them will make me feel more comfortable. This visit is all about taking their minds off of the harsh reality they sometimes lead, Kara’s words, and I’m willing to do anything to achieve that.

“Ah! Can you play ‘Sweet Love’? That is my favorite song of yours!” The same girl who just hugged me leaps up and down. “I’m Melanie, by the way. Can you sign my phone case?”

She thrusts a phone at me, and the rest of the kids start to perk up, coming to sit around where I’ve taken a seat. “Of course, I can.”

Out in the hall, there were dozens of signed CDs for them, T-shirts, merchandise, and tons of toys, books and games I’d helped coordinate with Patrick to buy and bring with me.

“Can you sing Justin Bieber? He’s my favorite.” Another little girl, this one much younger than Melanie, quietly asked me.

It wasn’t usually my jam to sing other artist’s songs, but for them, I’d do it. “Whatever you guys want to hear, I’m here to serve.”

“Does everyone know who this is?” Kara steps in, sitting with three little boys on one side of the room.

They clamber to her, each trying to sit in her lap. My heart melts, seeing how good she is with these children. A flash of her pregnant, sometime in the future, zips through my mind. She would be the most amazing mother.

A bunch of kids respond to her and say yes, but some shake their heads. “This is my friend, Dean. He is a famous singer, he’s traveled all over the world playing concerts and performing. And he’s here especially for you all today, to, like he said, play whatever songs you want.”

While she talks, I pull my favorite guitar out of its case. It isn’t the most flashy instrument I own, and it doesn’t have the bells and whistles of the electric guitars hanging in my den, but this one holds the most special place in my heart.

Kara doesn’t see it until I strum the first chords of “Sweet Love,” the request Melanie made. But I hear the gasp when she realizes what instrument I have in my hands. I look up, my eyes connecting with those violet orbs, and I flash her a small smile as I start to sing.

The old, love-worn acoustic guitar, with its wood finish nearly rubbed away on the neck, was over ten years old. It was the first real guitar I’d ever owned, and Kara had saved up for a year to buy it for me. It wasn’t a name brand, it wasn’t fancy. But I’d rehearsed all of my first shows on this piece of wood, I’d played late into the night for my high school sweetheart as she sat up on the other end of the phone. I’d taken it with me to Hollywood, and recorded my first single using it, even to the annoyance of the studio manager who claimed it was a piece of shit.

I’d brought it here today because today was special, and it should be organic. Just like the love I had for this guitar. Just like the love I had for her.

As I switch songs, strumming into a Justin Bieber tune that I don’t loathe, I see her singing along with me. The kids become more involved getting up to dance, or just sitting at my feet and singing. I have to push past the lump in my throat to get the lyrics out, because the moment feels so powerful.

They’re healing me instead of the other way around. And all the while I get to gaze at Kara, so in her element, so caring and giving.

We spend two more hours than allotted for just sitting in the playroom, talking and singing and opening new toys with the kids. It’s one of the best days I’ve ever spent in Los Angeles, and it has nothing to do with fame, money or power.

And everything to do with the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.