Page 159 of Discordant Cultivation

“Just go!” Kieran shouted, feeling like he was on fire, like his skin couldn’t contain the terror vibrating through his bones. “Just—justgo!”

Jericho was quiet for a moment, watching him cry, then she started backing toward the door. “Take as long as you need to breathe. And Kieran—when you’re ready... I’m here. I promise.”

She unlocked the door, slipped out, and closed it gently behind her.

The silence crashed over him.

Kieran stayed curled against the wall, his chest heaving, the tears still flowing. He couldn’t make them stop. He couldn’t make his hands stop shaking or make the panic recede.

Jericho’s words kept echoing in his mind, each one a knife:

“This isn’t what love looks like.”

“You ask him permission for everything.”

“You’re in danger.”

No.No.She didn’t understand. She couldn’t see what they had, the way Vale took care of him, the way he’d sacrificed everything to help Kieran during his last seizure. The way he made Kieranbetter. He helped him create art that mattered.

His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe right. His vision kept graying out at the edges.

Someone knows. Someone’s going to tell. Vale’s going to find out I let her see—

He needed Vale’s hand on his throat. That perfect grounding pressure that made everything else fade away. He felt like his body was screaming for it—the touch that meant safety, that meant belonging, that meant home.

But Vale wasn’t here.

Kieran brought his hands up and wrapped his fingers around his own neck.

And squeezed.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel the pressure. Just enough to trigger that response, that flood of chemical calm his brain had been trained to associate with Vale’s touch.

It helped.

Just a little.

His fingers tightened, seeking more of that relief, that anchor. The pressure centered him. The panic receded to something manageable—still there, still screaming, but quieter.

It wasn’t Vale’s hand.

It was his own.

And he was alone in a green room trying to strangle the anxiety out of his own throat.

But it worked.

And that realization—that he’d learned to comfort himself with the ghost of his own captivity—should have horrified him.

Instead, he just kept squeezing.

Just enough to breathe.

51

I think I know what love is; It's finding peace in surrender…

Vale