Okay. Well. Damn.
The Thames rushed dark and restless alongside him as he walked the embankment, the city lights scattering across the surface like spilled glitter. Milo’s guitar case bumped against his hip, his breath syncing with the rhythm of the river. London smelled of wet stone and exhaust, sharp and alive.
He stopped under a streetlamp and thumbed open his phone. The voice memo app glowed. He spoke softly, half-singing the thought before it disappeared:
“New lyric: sing with strangers / until they become your shelter.”
The line hung in the air, and he saved it, slid the phone back into his pocket, then resumed walking.
Later, in his small but clean room in the one-star hotel near London Bridge, Milo sat cross-legged on the bed with his guitar. He tuned it carefully, string by string, the ritual soothing him back into himself. Then he played the song from the audition, soft at first, then fuller, letting a second voice curl over the melody in harmony.
The sound filled the small room, richer than he expected, something larger than himself pressing against the walls. For the first time in years, it didn’t feel as though he was singing into emptiness.
It feels like my voice might belong somewhere again.
The door closed softly, leaving a faint trace of Milo’s last harmony, like a ghost still in the air.
Theo exhaled. “There’s a restraint to him. Did you hear it?”
Max cocked his head. “I heard pain. Anger. Hunger. He holds it tight, as if he’s afraid to spill too much. But when he lets go…” He let the thought trail.
Theo’s brow furrowed. “That kind of intensity can anchor a group. It can also fracture it. People like him… they need careful handling.”
Max’s eyes gleamed. “Or carefulun-handling. Let him crack and see what beauty comes out.”
Theo shot him a dry look. “You’re already plotting ways to push him, aren’t you?”
“Not push—invite.” Max leaned back, his arms crossed. “There’s a difference. And don’t pretend you didn’t feel it too. He shut usbothup. That’s not nothing.”
Theo allowed a reluctant smile. “True. He could be the quiet centre we need.”
Max’s grin faded. “It feels to me as if he’s looking for shelter.” He gave a shrug. “If he thinks he’s found it here, he’ll stay.”
Theo scribbled in his notebook, then stilled. “Hang on, though. We can’t just be a group of soloists fighting for space. Harmony means compromise. Trust. You think Milo can trust us?”
Max tilted his head, his gaze sharp. “Depends if we earn it. Trust is a kink all its own.Youknow that.”
Theo rolled his eyes, unable to stop his lips twitching. “Leave it to you to drag everything back to kink.”
Max smiled. “It’s not just kink. It’s control. Vulnerability. The same things that make harmony work.” He pinned Theo with a look. “And you know all about control.”
For a moment, neither of them filled the contemplative silence.
Theo closed his notebook with a snap. “We’ll see if he shows up next week.”
Max murmured, “Oh, he will. He needs this as much as we do.”
Chapter Eight
The hissof the steam wand was Elliott Foster’s favourite kind of percussion—steady, controlled, just enough rhythm to keep his hands in sync with his head. He leaned into it, his wrist tilting the pitcher, coaxing silk out of oat milk. Behind the counter of Haven, Shoreditch’s most unapologetically queer café/art space, Elliott was part barista, part stage manager. The mass of fairy lights across the ceiling twinkled above mismatched chairs, a crooked bookshelf sagged under zines and second-hand poetry collections, and in the corner stood the upright piano.
Elliott’s upright piano, and no one touched it but him.
Not unless they wanted to lose a finger.
“Large, triple shot?” he teased before looking up.
The regular on the other side of the bar rolled his eyes. “You memorise everyone’s orders just so you can be smug, don’t you?”
