Page 9 of Discordant Cultivation

“I can’t—” Kieran’s voice came out strangled. “I c-c-can’t sing with your hand there.”

“Of course you can.” Vale’s breath warmed his ear. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

But trusting people who said they knew what they were doing was how Kieran had ended up in some of his worst situations. The thought flashed through his mind unbidden—group homes, case workers who smiled too wide, people who said “trust me” right before things got complicated.

Kieran tried to sing the line, but the words came out high and breathy again.I don’t like this…

“Your posture is all wrong,” Vale murmured, as his hand slid from Kieran’s stomach to his hip. “You’re too tense. Let me help.”

Before Kieran could process what was happening, Vale’s hands were on his hips, adjusting how he sat in the chair. Except Vale’s fingers lingered, thumbs pressing against hipbones through denim in a way that felt deliberately intimate.

“Relax your core,” Vale said, his tone still instructional but somehow different. “The tension in your lower back is affecting your breathing.”

One of Vale’s hands moved to the small of Kieran’s back, then lower. Fingertips slipped just beneath the waistband of his jeans, skin against skin, warm and invasive and wrong.

Kieran froze.

“Wh-what are you doing?” The words came out barely above a whisper.

Vale leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing Kieran’s ear. “I’m helping you, Kier.”

No one called him Kier, and hearing it from Vale’s mouth while those fingers pressed against bare skin made something snap inside Kieran’s chest.

This wasn’t coaching.

This was something else entirely.

“Stop.” Kieran shot up from the chair so fast the guitar strap caught around his neck. His hands shook as he lifted it over his head, every movement sharp with panic.

Vale stepped back, his hands raised in a gesture of innocence. “Kieran, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t—” Kieran’s voice cracked. “Don’t t-t-touch me like that.”

“I was helping with your posture. Your positioning was affecting your breath support.” Vale’s tone was perfectly reasonable and concerned. “I should have explained the technique first. I apologize.”

Was I wrong? Am I overreacting?

But Kieran could still feel those fingers against his skin, could still hear the way Vale had whispered his name like something private and owned. His chest felt tight, airways constricting like the beginning of an episode.

Don’t have a seizure. Not now. Not here, where no one knows you’re missing.

“I need to g-go,” he managed.

“Kieran.” Vale’s voice was patient, concerned. “You’re having an anxiety response. It’s completely normal in the studio environment. Professional singers work with vocal coaches this way all the time.”

Do they? Is this normal?

“I need some air.”

“We were making real progress—”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Kieran fumbled with the door handle, hands shaking. “Thank you for dinner, thank you for this, but I c-can’t—”

The control room felt too small, too warm. Kieran set the Martin guitar carefully in its stand.

“Let me call you a car,” Vale said, following him toward the exit. His expression was perfect concern, perfect professionalism. Like the past five minutes hadn’t happened, or had happened differently than Kieran remembered.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll walk.”