Leather.
Oliver’s throat tightened, his heart thudding. He closed his eyes against the rush of memory.
The sight of Dean’s leather gear hanging in his wardrobe, illicit and somehow dangerous.
Dean’s hand firm on his shoulder, grounding him.
Dean’s voice, dark velvet.
Dean’s eyes on him, steady, unflinching.
The feeling that had been too big, too adult—and all wrong.
Seven years gone, and the ghost of it still burned hotter than any fire.
Oliver shoved the thought down, dragged his clothes on, and left before the locker room walls could hear him breathing too hard.
Home was chaos. His flatmates were arguing over pizza boxes in the kitchen, and the place was a mess. Oliver threw food together and hastened to the sanctuary of his room, with its neat lines, clean surfaces, and a lock on the door. He made quick work of pasta and tea before sinking onto his bed, his phone in one hand, a leather cuff in the other.
He pressed the cuff to his face, inhaled the faint ghost of a scent that wasn’t there anymore. He’d stolen it, years ago, like a talisman. A promise. The leather had outlasted the boy he’d been, the man he’d lost.
Dean had never asked where it went.
Oliver swallowed hard, set the cuff aside, and opened the link again.
Experience: baritone.
A short, safe response.
No one needed to know. Not yet.
If nothing came of it, at least he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d thought he belonged.
Oliver shifted on the chair in the audition room, willing his pulse to even out. Brewer Street had felt easier with its jumble of guitar shops and neon doorways, the scent of smoke and sweat in the air. Inside, away from the noise and bustle, his nerves were suddenly alight.
Then the door opened, and two men entered. Opposites, and yet not.
The first, dark, sprawling, his leather creaking as he dropped into a seat, looked like trouble disguised as invitation. His gaze slid over Oliver, as if he was deciding what he might do with him.
The second sat straighter, pen in hand, precise in every movement. There was no softness, but there was safety in the discipline, the measured way his eyes lingered just long enough without trespassing.
After a brief introduction, Oliver had names to put to the faces.
Max and Theo.
Between them, Oliver felt caught in a current he hadn’t chosen, one that tugged him, its clutch rough yet exacting. Both sensations left his skin buzzing, although he wasn’t sure which unsettled him more.
“You’ve sung before?” Theo asked, his tone brisk.
Oliver nodded, his throat tight. “Choir. A cappella. Some barbershop.” He kept it neat, safe.
Max tilted his head, his lips curling. “What about leather? You think you could wear it onstage?”
“Probably.” The word came out steady, but his pulse hammered like a drumline.
Theo adjusted his notes. “What are you going to sing for us?”
Oliver didn’t answer. He simply opened his mouth and let the first notes ofThe Parting Glassspill out. His voice was deep, resonant, every phrase weighted with the heaviness he carried but never showed. Each line felt like a farewell, not just to the song but to the parts of himself he kept locked away.
