Chapter 3
Guilt's a heavy chain around my throat…
Kieran
The studio was nothing like what Kieran had seen from watching music documentaries on YouTube.
This one was smaller, more intimate, with equipment that he never even entertained daydreaming about, all arranged like an altar to sound itself.
Mixing boards with hundreds of sliders and knobs, microphones that looked like sculptures, speakers taller than he was, positioned in taped off areas.
Everything in here costs more than my entire existence.
“First time?” Vale asked, watching Kieran’s wide-eyed survey of the control room.
“Yeah.” Kieran’s voice came out smaller than intended. “It’s... incredible.”
“This is just the control room. The magic happens in there.” Vale gestured through a large window to the recording booth beyond. “Soundproof, acoustically treated. You could scream, and no one outside would hear a whisper.”
That’s either really cool or really creepy, and I can’t tell which.
The booth looked like a padded cell lined with foam wedges and wooden panels. A single chair sat in the center, a microphone suspended above it like a spider waiting to catch sound. Kieran’s throat tightened. Something about the isolation of it, the way the foam seemed to swallow light...
“The guitar collection is over here,” Vale said, leading him to a wall lined with instruments that made Kieran’s street-worn acoustic look like a toy. “Try this one.”
He handed Kieran a Martin D-28, the kind of guitar he’d only touched in music stores before employees asked him to leave. The wood warmed under his fingers, perfectly set up with action that made complex fingerpicking feel effortless.
“I can’t—what if I d-damage it?”
Vale’s smile was patient, almost indulgent. Like Kieran was a kid worried about breaking a toy instead of a grown man holding someone’s mortgage in guitar form. “It’s an instrument, not a museum piece. Play something.”
Kieran strummed a few chords, and the guitar sang back to him in a rich, full tone that filled the control room without amplification. His own guitar sounded like a tin can in comparison.
“Better?” Vale asked, standing close enough that Kieran could smell his cologne—something that was orangey and spiced.
“It’s p-perfect.”
“Good. Let’s get you set up in the booth.”
The recording booth felt like stepping inside a coffin.
The outside world disappeared behind thick glass and foam padding, leaving only the chair, the microphone, and the weight of being watched.
Vale’s voice came through the headphones, making every word sound intimate and close, like he was whispering directly into Kieran’s ear.
“Can you hear me clearly?”
Kieran nodded. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Take your time getting comfortable. There’s no rush.”
But there was a rush, wasn’t there? This was Vale Rose’s time, Vale Rose’s studio, Vale Rose’s expensive equipment. Kieran positioned the guitar across his knees, adjusted the microphone stand, and tried to find a posture that didn’t feel like performing surgery.
His fingers found his bracelet, rubbing the engraved text. The familiar ritual grounded him slightly, though he knew it probably looked weird on camera. If there were cameras. Were there cameras?
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Kieran started playing the opening chords, but his timing felt off. The environment made every note feel exposed, dissected. When he busked, he could watch his fingers, focus downward, let the world disappear around him. Here, the microphone seemed to demand attention he wasn’t ready for.
He stopped mid-phrase.
“Sorry, I just—let me try again.”
“No problem. As many takes as you need.” Vale’s voice stayed warm, patient. The kind of patience that felt generous but also... watchful. Like a scientist observing a lab rat figure out a maze.
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.
“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.”
“It’s late. This isn’t the safest neighborhood.”
Safer than staying here.
“I’m f-fine. Really. Thank you again. For everything.”
Vale walked him to the studio door, his brow furrowed and his mouth forming the smallest pout. “Call me tomorrow. We can try again when you’re feeling more comfortable.”
Kieran nodded without meaning it, pushed out into the alley, and walked as fast as he could without running.
Three blocks away, he finally let himself stop and breathe.
What the hell was that?
His phone buzzed in his pocket:
Vale Rose – Producer
Get home safe. Looking forward to our next session.
-V
Kieran deleted the message and started walking toward the train station, each step away from the studio feeling like escaping something he didn’t have words for yet.