Page 14 of Discordant Cultivation

He undressed me while I was unconscious. Saw me naked. Touched me without permission.

“I w-want to leave.”

“Of course you do. But the doctor I consulted recommended at least twenty-four hours of observation after a seizure with head trauma.” Vale stood, moving to look out the window. “Especially when there’s no one at home to monitor you.”

“What doctor?” Kieran’s voice came out sharper than intended, his mounting panic cutting through the post-seizure fog.

“A colleague who specializes in neurological emergencies. He was very concerned about sending you home alone.” Vale turned back to him, his face arranged in expressions of gentle concern. “What if you have another episode? What if you fall again and no one finds you for hours?”

The questions hit exactly where they were designed to—the primal fear that lived in every person with epilepsy. The terror of seizing alone, of waking up injured or not waking up at all. Kieran lived with that fear his entire life; he knew it well enough to call it a friend.

But Vale using that fear, weaponizing it—that was something else entirely.

“I m-m-manage fine on my own.”

“Do you? You were busking on a street corner, Kieran. Alone. If I hadn’t been there...” Vale let the sentence hang like a blade.

If you hadn’t been there, I probably wouldn’t have seized in the first place.

But Kieran couldn’t say that out loud. He couldn’t admit that Vale’s presence had sent his stress levels into seizure territory, that his body had literally shut down rather than deal with seeing him again.

Kieran set the water glass down with shaking fingers. The room tilted when he tried to stand, but he gripped the bedpost until his vision stabilized. Vertigo. Another familiar friend.

“Th-thank you for helping me. But I need to go home n-now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Something in Vale’s tone had changed. It was still polite, still concerned, but underneath lurked something harder. Something that suggested this wasn’t actually a discussion.

“What d-do you mean it’s not p-possible?”

“You’re in no condition to travel. The medication alone makes driving dangerous, and there’s no public transportation out here.” Vale moved toward the door and positioned himself between Kieran and the exit. “This is for your own safety.”

For your own safety.

The phrase tasted wrong, felt wrong. Kieran had heard it before—from case workers who moved him to worse placements, from foster parents who locked bedroom doors “for his protection,” from administrators who separated him from the few friends he made because it was “safer” that way.

“Then call me a c-cab. An Uber. Something.”

“Cell service is spotty out here, and my landline is having issues.” Vale’s gentle smile never wavered. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

Kieran moved toward the door, but Vale’s hand settled on his chest before he got close. Not violent, not aggressive, but unmovably firm. Up close, Kieran could see the muscle definition under Vale’s t-shirt and could feel the controlled strength in that single point of contact.

Oh. He’s strong. Stronger than he looks.

“Kieran.” Vale’s voice dropped to something intimate and dangerous. “You’re not well. You need rest, proper nutrition, and medical supervision. I’m providing all of that.”

“Let m-me go.”

“I can’t do that.”

Not “you shouldn’t leave” or “it’s not safe.” Simply:I can’t do that.

Kieran’s heart hammered against his ribs as the full scope of his situation crystallized. The isolated location. The way Vale positioned himself.

This isn’t a rescue. This is captivity.

“You can’t keep m-me here.”