Page 8 of Discordant Cultivation

Stop it. He’s being nice. This is what producers do.

The second attempt made it further before Kieran’s voice cracked on the first line. The headphones made his own vocals sound foreign, too loud, and too quiet at the same time.

Stop.

Third attempt.

Stop.

“I’m sorry,” Kieran said, pulling off the headphones. His hands shook again, that familiar tremor that meant his anxiety was about to cascade into a full-blown panic. “I don’t know why I c-c-can’t—on the street it’s easier somehow.”

Vale’s voice came through the booth’s speakers instead of the headphones, warmer and more present. “You’re used to performing for people who aren’t really listening. Here, every note matters. It’s intimidating.”

“Yeah.”

“Try this—close your eyes. Forget about the microphone, forget about me. Just play for yourself.”

Kieran closed his eyes and let his fingers find the familiar patterns. The opening notes of his song came easier in darkness, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed. His voice joined the guitar without him deciding to sing, words flowing out of some deep place that lived below anxiety and self-consciousness.

This is where the stutter disappears. This is where I’m not broken.

He sang it like a confession, like a prayer, like a goodbye.

When the last note faded, Kieran opened his eyes to find Vale watching him through the window with an expression he couldn’t read. Intense. Hungry. Something that tightened his chest.

The way someone looks at a thing they want to own.

Vale’s voice came through the headphones: “That was beautiful, Kieran. Really beautiful.”

Heat flushed Kieran’s cheeks. “Th-thank you.”

“Let me play it back for you.”

His own voice filled the booth, cleaner and more professional than he’d ever heard it. The guitar tone was incredible, every note distinct but warm. It sounded like real music, like something people might actually want to listen to.

This is what I could sound like.

“It’s good,” Vale said, entering the booth while the playback continued. “Very good. But I have some ideas for improvement.”

Kieran looked up at him, guitar still across his lap. “Okay.”

“Your breathing technique could use some refinement.” Vale moved behind Kieran’s chair, close enough that his cologne mixed with the studio’s acoustic foam smell. “May I?”

Kieran’s shoulders tensed. “I... sure.”

Vale’s hand settled on Kieran’s stomach, warm through his shirt. “Sing that first line again. Feel where the sound is coming from.”

Every muscle in Kieran’s body locked. The touch felt too intimate, too possessive.

This is normal. This is how vocal coaching works.

Except Kieran had watched YouTube videos about singing technique. The instructors never stood this close.

Kieran tried to sing, but the touch made his diaphragm tense. The note came out thin and breathy.

“You’re holding tension here.” Vale’s palm pressed harder, his fingers spread across Kieran’s abdomen. “Breathe deeper. Let the sound resonate from your core.”

His hand felt hot. Too hot. Too present.