Page 175 of Discordant Cultivation

That’s not Kieran’s voice.

55

Relief disguised as discipline, salvation wrapped in medicine…

Kieran

The bed felt too large without Vale’s weight pressing down the other side of the mattress. Kieran’s hand reached across the sheets, finding only the ghost of warmth where Vale’s body should have been. The note on the nightstand was written in Vale’s handwriting, black ink on cream stationery:

Work on your secret project. I’ll be home by 6. Love you. -V

Kieran pressed the paper against his chest for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of cologne that clung to everything Vale touched. The house was too quiet, too empty, the silence pressing against his eardrums in ways that made his anxiety spike.

He’ll be back in twelve hours. You can handle twelve hours.

The kitchen felt strange without Vale moving through it, making too much coffee while Kieran hovered nearby. Today he had to make his own breakfast, pour his own coffee, decide for himself what “enough food” looked like.

He was reaching for his morning medication when the lyrics hit him—sudden and perfect, the missing piece for the end the song he had been working on in secret that he nicknamed ‘The Argument’:

Love isn’t meant to set you free—love claims you as its own.

Kieran grabbed his notebook and scribbled the lines down before they could dissolve. The words felt right, powerful, exactly the kind of finality the song needed to end with a bang.

I need to see if it works.

The basement studio welcomed him like a second home now—it was no longer just the terrifying space where Vale had first taught him about endurance and surrender, but a sanctuary where music happened. His guitar was exactly where he’d left it, with the pages of his secret song stuffed inside the body.

Time dissolved the way it always did when Kieran was working. His fingers found chords while his voice tested melodic approaches, recording snippets on his phone. The song was taking shape exactly how he’d imagined—a proposal disguised as an argument, a love letter wrapped in a tense back and forth.

When the landline in the studio rang, showing Vale’s name, Kieran was so deep in the creative zone that reality felt like an intrusion.

“Hey,” he answered, slightly breathless. “How’s the m-meeting?”

“Boring.” Vale’s voice was warm even through the phone’s tinny speaker. “Have you eaten?”

Kieran’s eyes went to the clock—12:47 PM. He’d been in the basement for over four hours.

Shit. Breakfast. Medication. I forgot everything.

“Yes, m-mom,” he lied, the word slipping out before he could think better of it. The pill bottle was still upstairs on the kitchen counter where he’d abandoned it that morning. “I made myself a s-sandwich. Took my meds at noon. I’m working on the th-thing.”

“Good boy. How’s it coming?”

“Almost d-done. I think—I think it’s good, Vale. I think you’ll l-like it.”

They talked for a few more minutes, Vale’s voice grounding him in ways that made the empty house feel less overwhelming. But after hanging up, Kieran sat with the guitar across his lap, staring at nothing.

What would happen if he found out?

The thought arrived unbidden and dangerous. Vale always knew when Kieran lied—he could read every micro-expression and every vocal inflection. He’d find out about the skipped medication, about the lie. And then—

His disappointment would harden into a coldness that meant a lesson was coming. His hands would grip Kieran’s face too hard, forcing eye contact while he explained why honesty mattered. The punishment that would follow—maybe restraints, maybe the kind of correction that left marks, maybe both.

“You lied to me, sweetheart. We need to address that.”

Heat flooded Kieran’s body, arousal so sudden and unexpected it made him gasp. His face burned with shame even as his body responded to the fantasy of Vale’s hands on him, Vale’s voice dropping into that basement register, Vale teaching him through carefully calibrated pain about the consequences of dishonesty.

What’s wrong with me? Why does that make me—