Page 6 of Discordant Cultivation

But Vale didn’t change the subject.. “No other family? Siblings? Anyone looking out for you?”

“J-j-just me. I do okay on…on…on my own.”

This feels too personal.

Vale reached across the table then, fingers brushing against Kieran’s wrist. “What’s this?”

The medical alert bracelet felt heavy against Kieran’s skin. Vale’s touch lingered, his thumb tracing the metal band in a way that made Kieran want to pull away. But pulling away would be rude, and this man held his entire future in his hands.

“I have epilepsy.” His voice came out smaller than intended.

“Ah.” Vale’s fingers didn’t move. “Do you have tonic-clonic seizures?”

“Um, y-yes. Wow. Most people call them gr-gr-gra—” Kieran’s mouth felt mushy and stuck and he bit his lower lip. “I don’t g-get them as often as f-f-focal seizures, but I can play through focals. How d-do you know about seizures?”

“Believe it or not, I briefly attempted to major in music while attending medical school. Music won, obviously.” Vale’sgrip shifted, his thumb finding Kieran’s pulse on his wrist. “Triggers?”

“Stress. Sleep deprivation. Not fl-flashing lights, or anything l-like that. Th-that's n-not as common as people think.” The words felt pulled out of him. “Look, it’s not a big d-deal. I take medication, I m-manage it fine.”

Let go of my wrist.

But he didn’t pull away. Something about Vale’s attention felt hypnotic, like being studied by something predatory that had decided not to pounce yet.

“The song you performed this morning,” Vale said, finally releasing his hold. “It was about seizures, wasn’t it? About the fear of dying in your sleep.”

Kieran’s mouth went dry. “You remember the lyrics?”

“I remember everything that matters.” Vale signaled the waiter. “You’re getting tense. Let’s fix that.”

The drinks that arrived weren’t more wine, they were something clear and fruity in martini glasses that tasted like candy. Kieran took a sip and felt warmth spread through his chest, the alcohol smoothing the edges his anxiety had sharpened.

“Better?” Vale asked, watching Kieran drain half the cocktail.

“Yeah. Thanks.” His words flowed with a belly full of liquor. “Sorry, I’m n-not used to... this. Any of this.”

“You will be.” Vale smiled. “I want to record that song. The one about seizures. Tonight, if you’re willing.”

Kieran’s pulse quickened. “Tonight?”

“I know a private studio not far from here. We could walk, get some air.” Vale finished his own drink and stood, pulling out his wallet. “What do you say?”

Recording a song. With a real producer. In a real studio.

Kieran nodded before he could second-guess himself, alcohol and hope making him bold. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Vale left cash on the table—more than enough to cover their bill—and gestured toward the door.

Outside, the evening air was cool against Kieran’s flushed skin. Vale walked beside him with confident strides, leading them away from the main street into quieter blocks lined with warehouses and converted lofts.

“The studio’s in one of these buildings,” Vale explained. “It’s very private, with excellent acoustics. Perfect for intimate recordings.”

Where exactly are we going?

But Kieran didn’t ask. The drinks had made everything in his head loose and warm, and Vale’s presence beside him felt grounding. A producer wanted to record his music. His weird, personal, vulnerable music that nobody else ever understood.

Don’t let anxiety ruin this. Not when you’re this close.

Vale’s hand touched the small of his back, guiding him around a corner into a narrow alley between brick buildings.