Chapter 51 #2
“I can’t believe you ordered a b-burger,” Kieran said. “What’s next? Pizza? Gas station s-sushi?”
“I draw the line at gas station sushi.”
“But not at—” Kieran gestured at the burger, which was actively dripping grease onto the plate. “That. That m-monstrosity.”
“This monstrosity is an American classic.”
“You’re such a snob about everything except when you’re n-not.” Kieran shook his head, but he was smiling. Really smiling. “I d-don’t understand you at all.”
Good, Vale thought. Keep trying to understand me. Keep looking at me like I’m a puzzle you want to solve. I’ll give you a lifetime of contradictions if it means you keep smiling like that.
He picked up the burger with both hands, fully aware of how ridiculous he looked—Valerian Rose, who had a wine pairing for every piece of classical music he knew how to play—eating a bacon cheeseburger with his hands in a mid-range restaurant while the love of his life watched with delighted disbelief.
He took a bite.
It was spectacular.
“Oh god,” Kieran said, watching Vale’s expression. “You l-like it. You actually like it.”
Vale chewed, swallowed, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “It’s acceptable.”
“Your f-face says it’s more than acceptable.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face says you’re g-going to order another one.”
Vale took another bite instead of responding, and Kieran laughed again—that bright, startled sound that Vale was rapidly becoming addicted to.
They fell into easy conversation after that, talking about nothing important: a documentary Kieran had watched while Vale was in meetings, a particularly dramatic moment in the baking show they’d been following, an argument about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (Kieran: firmly yes, Vale: absolutely not, under any circumstances, this is grounds for revoking a musical career).
It felt... normal.
Terrifyingly, wonderfully normal.
Kieran was still glancing around occasionally, still tracking movement in his peripheral vision, but the vigilance had softened into something closer to curiosity than fear.
He’d finished his own meal—a chicken sandwich, safe, predictable—and was stealing fries from Vale’s plate with increasing boldness, as if testing whether Vale would stop him.
Vale didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to. This is what I’m giving you, Vale thought, watching Kieran bite into a stolen fry with exaggerated satisfaction. Moments where you forget to be afraid. Moments where you’re just a person eating dinner with someone who loves you.
“—and then she just p-posted the video without telling anyone,“ Kieran was saying, still on the topic of the baking show, “and the whole internet lost their m-minds because—”
He stopped.
Vale followed his gaze. A young woman was approaching their table—maybe in her early twenties with pink-streaked hair and a phone clutched in both hands like a shield. Her face was flushed, her steps hesitant, and Vale felt his shoulders tense. Don’t spook him. He’s finally relaxed. Don’t—
“I’m sorry to—to—to—” The girl’s face went redder. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath, forced the words out: ”—Y-you’re Th-Thorn-n-n?”
She held up the phone.
Kieran’s own nervousness didn’t disappear, but it rearranged itself. “Do you want a p-picture?”
The girl nodded frantically, clearly relieved she didn’t have to ask.
Vale was already sliding out of the booth to take the picture for them. “W-wait—” The girl’s voice stopped him. “C-c-could you—both of you? T-together?”
She couldn’t finish. But her eyes were bright like she was about to burst into tears. Before Vale could respond, Kieran was moving.
“Yeah, of c-course, here—”
He slid out of his side of the booth and crossed to Vale’s, and Vale expected him to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the standard arrangement for a photo. Instead Kieran paused, seemed to calculate something, and then sat in Vale’s lap.
Just like that. Casual, easy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His weight settled against Vale’s thighs, his back warm against Vale’s chest, and he was reaching for the girl’s phone with a confidence Vale had never seen in him outside of a performance.
“Here, give it to Vale—he’s got the l-longest arms. Come on, get in here.”
The girl looked like she might faint. She sat beside them, her eyes like saucers and her jaw ticking forward like she was trying to speak again but the words were stuck.
Vale was still trying to process what was happening.
Kieran. In his lap. In public. Not because Vale positioned him there, not because Vale commanded it, but because Kieran chose it. He saw a logistical problem and solved it by climbing into Vale’s lap like that was simply where he belonged.
“Vale.” Kieran’s voice was amused. “The ph-phone.”
Right. The photo.
Vale took the phone with hands that felt strangely disconnected from his body. Raised it, angled it to capture all three of them—the flushed fan, Kieran’s easy smile, Vale’s own face that he could only hope looked composed rather than thunderstruck.
Click.
“One more,” Kieran said, “in case someone b-blinked.“
Click.
“Okay, check it—m-make sure you like it.“
The girl took her phone back without bothering to look at the screen. “Th-th-thanks,” she managed.
“No problem,” Kieran said with a smile. “What’s your n-name?”
“M-M-Mia.”
“I’m really glad to m-meet you, Mia.”
Mia looked like Kieran had handed her the sun.
She nodded frantically, clutched her phone to her chest, and retreated—almost running back to a table near a window where four other people sat watching.
As soon as she reached them, the whole group erupted in hushed, frantic whispers.
Phones emerged. Someone was fanning themselves with a menu.
Kieran was still in Vale’s lap, sitting there, warm and solid and relaxed, watching Mia return to her friends with a small, satisfied smile.
“She was nervous,” Kieran said quietly. “She’s l-like me.”
Of course Vale noticed. He noticed everything—the way Kieran took charge of the interaction so the girl wouldn’t have to struggle through more words than necessary, the way he’d asked her name like it mattered because it did matter, because Kieran understood what it felt like to fight for every syllable.
“I noticed,” Vale said.
Kieran turned slightly, looking back at Vale over his shoulder. His eyes were soft. Happy. Present in a way that felt like a gift.
“This was a good idea,” he said. “The d-dinner. I’m glad you made me come.”
Vale’s hands found Kieran’s waist and pulled him closer, tighter, until Kieran’s back was flush against his chest and there was no space between them at all.
And then Vale kissed him.
You chose me, the kiss said. In front of everyone, you chose to be mine. You sat in my lap like it was home and you didn’t even hesitate.
When they finally broke apart, Kieran was flushed and breathing harder, and the table of fans by the window had gone absolutely silent.
“Vale,” Kieran whispered, half-laughing, “we’re in p-public.”
“I’m aware.”
“People are l-looking.”
“Let them.”
Kieran’s eyes were bright with something Vale wanted to bottle and keep forever.
This, Vale thought, thumb tracing circles on Kieran’s hip. This is what I think I’ve always wanted. This is what I didn’t know how to ask for.
Not just obedience. Not just surrender.
This.
The house was quiet when they arrived home. It was late enough that the world felt muffled, wrapped in the particular stillness of approaching midnight.
Vale moved through the familiar routine on autopilot: shoes by the door, jacket hung in the closet, a detour to the kitchen for Kieran’s nighttime medication.
Always at ten PM. The neurologist had been very specific about consistency, and Vale had built it into their schedule with the same precision he applied to everything else.
He paused in front of the fridge, pulling the ring out of his pocket while Kieran went to brush his teeth.
It wasn’t a traditional ring—not gold or platinum, not the kind of thing anyone would ever find in a jewelry store window.
The band was clear acrylic, custom-made, the kind of material that looked like solidified water in the right light.
But embedded within the transparent resin, between small diamonds and visible from every angle, were the nylon strings from Kieran’s smashed guitar and deep red rose petals, preserved at the peak of their bloom.
He had briefly considered using the gems from his mother’s wedding band, but he didn’t want to disturb the roses and explain to Mrs. Martinez why he dug up that section of the greenhouse.
This was better.
But Vale still had no idea when the right time would be.
With a sigh, he pocketed the ring again and filled a glass with ice and some water—he always made sure there was plenty of ice that would melt overnight so Kieran could still have cold water in the middle of the night if a strong myoclonic jerk woke him up.
When he turned around, Kieran was standing there, his brow slightly furrowed, looking at Vale with a scrutiny that felt almost uncomfortable.
“You’re staring,” Vale said as nonchalantly as he could, but his heart was doing that thing again, like it was trying to rip out of his body.
“You st-stare at me all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Vale didn’t have an answer. He held out the pill and the water glass instead, and Kieran took them, but he didn’t immediately swallow it. He just stood there, the medication balanced on his palm, his eyes never leaving Vale’s face.
“C-can I-I ask you a question?” Kieran asked, suddenly casting his gaze down. “About your contacts.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Why did you really start wearing con-contacts?”
Vale said nothing at first. His heart was doing something inconvenient, beating too fast, too loud. He could lie—he could deflect, redirect, offer some practical explanation about eye strain or aesthetic choices. Kieran would probably accept it. Kieran accepted most of what Vale told him.
But this felt like a moment that mattered. A small door opening, offering a glimpse of something Vale usually kept hidden. And Kieran was standing there with his medication in his hand and his eyes on the ground like he was already accepting a non-answer and Vale found that he didn’t want to lie.
“You kissed me back,” Vale said.
Kieran blinked and met his gaze. “What?”
“The first time. When I kissed you, and you—” Vale’s throat felt tight. This was harder than he’d expected, exposing something so small and so stupid and so revealing. “You kissed me back. And I realized that my glasses were going to be a problem.”
“A p-problem?”
“If you wanted to do it again.” Vale forced himself to hold Kieran’s gaze, even as heat crept up his neck. “That moment of hesitation—having to remove them, or bump into them, or adjust them—it could ruin things. Ruin the moment. So I got contacts.”
Kieran stared at him.
“I hate how they feel,” Vale admitted, and god, he sounded pathetic. “I hate putting them in, I hate taking them out, I hate the way my eyes get dry if I forget to blink. But the thought of—of reaching for you and having something in the way—”
He stopped. He’d said too much. Revealed too much. Kieran was looking at him like he’d never seen him before, and Vale didn’t know what to do with that look, didn’t know how to—
Kieran set down the water glass.
He crossed the space between them in two steps, and then his hands were on Vale’s face—cupping his jaw, tilting his head down—and Kieran was kissing him.
It was soft and gentle. Kieran’s thumbs stroked along Vale’s cheekbones, his lips warm and careful, his whole body leaning into Vale like he was trying to say something words couldn’t capture.
“I l-liked your glasses,” he said quietly. Almost shyly. “Just so you know.”
And then he grabbed the pill, swallowed it dry, and practically fled the room.