Page 164 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran turned slightly, looking back at Vale over his shoulder. His eyes were soft. Happy. Present in a way that felt like a gift.

“This was a good idea,” he said. “The d-dinner. I’m glad you made me come.”

Vale’s hands found Kieran’s waist and pulled him closer, tighter, until Kieran’s back was flush against his chest and there was no space between them at all.

And then Vale kissed him.

You chose me,the kiss said.In front of everyone, you chose to be mine. You sat in my lap like it was home and you didn’t even hesitate.

When they finally broke apart, Kieran was flushed and breathing harder, and the table of fans by the window had gone absolutely silent.

“Vale,” Kieran whispered, half-laughing, “we’re in p-public.”

“I’m aware.”

“People are l-looking.”

“Let them.”

Kieran’s eyes were bright with something Vale wanted to bottle and keep forever.

This,Vale thought, thumb tracing circles on Kieran’s hip.This is what I think I’ve always wanted. This is what I didn’t know how to ask for.

Not just obedience. Not just surrender.

This.

The house was quiet when they arrived home. It was late enough that the world felt muffled, wrapped in the particular stillness of approaching midnight.

Vale moved through the familiar routine on autopilot: shoes by the door, jacket hung in the closet, a detour to the kitchen for Kieran’s nighttime medication. Always at ten PM. The neurologist had been very specific about consistency, and Vale had built it into their schedule with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He paused in front of the fridge, pulling the ring out of his pocket while Kieran went to brush his teeth. It wasn’t a traditional ring—not gold or platinum, not the kind of thing anyone would ever find in a jewelry store window. The band was clear acrylic, custom-made, the kind of material that looked like solidified water in the right light. But embedded within the transparent resin, between small diamonds and visible from every angle, were the nylon strings from Kieran’s smashed guitar and deep red rose petals, preserved at the peak of their bloom.

He had briefly considered using the gems from his mother’s wedding band, but he didn’t want to disturb the roses and explain to Mrs. Martinez why he dug up that section of the greenhouse.

This was better.

But Vale still had no idea when the right time would be.

With a sigh, he pocketed the ring again and filled a glass with ice and some water—he always made sure there was plenty of ice that would melt overnight so Kieran could still have cold water in the middle of the night if a strong myoclonic jerk woke him up. When he turned around, Kieran was standing there, his brow slightly furrowed, looking at Vale with a scrutiny that felt almost uncomfortable.

“You’re staring,” Vale said as nonchalantly as he could, but his heart was doing that thing again, like it was trying to rip out of his body.

“You st-stare at me all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Vale didn’t have an answer. He held out the pill and the water glass instead, and Kieran took them, but he didn’t immediately swallow it. He just stood there, the medication balanced on his palm, his eyes never leaving Vale’s face.

“C-can I-I ask you a question?” Kieran asked, suddenly casting his gaze down. “About your contacts.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Why did you really start wearing con-contacts?”

Vale said nothing at first. His heart was doing something inconvenient, beating too fast, too loud. He could lie—he could deflect, redirect, offer some practical explanation about eye strain or aesthetic choices. Kieran would probably accept it. Kieran accepted most of what Vale told him.