Funny. It was the only part of him that had ever felt real.
He shook himself free of the memory, grabbing his bag. His train left in precisely one hour, and the buses to the station were unreliable.
Time to put the armour to work.
Finnley snagged a window seat on the York-to-London train, clutching his overnight bag as though it might explode if he let go. His boots were too tall for comfort, but that was the point.
Comfort was dangerous.
Comfort made him think too much.
He pulled out his phone, angling the camera just right. A duck-lipped pout, chin tilt, glitter catching in the light. He uploaded it to his story with a caption:
“Off to steal hearts and maybe a spotlight #AuditionDay”
The likes and fire emojis started rolling in before he’d even locked the screen. He grinned.
Performance successful.
But when he set the phone down, silence pressed in. His reflection in the window didn’t look like the boy who joked his way out of every bruise, who lit up every room.
It looked more like the boy who’d once been told his voice was unnatural.
His chest tightened in panic, sharp and familiar. He breathed in for four counts, out for six, like his therapist had drilled into him.
Don’t crack, Pierce. Not today.
He hummed softly, letting falsetto notes float like bubbles in his throat. The passengers nearby glanced his way, some smiling, some frowning. Finnley lifted his chin, sparkling grin locked in place.
He texted his mum:
On the train. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. x
He deleted it. He didn’t want her worrying. He didn’t want anyone to know he was scared.
Instead, he whispered the line he’d been workshopping for weeks:
“If I shine hard enough, maybe no one will see me shake.”
The train rumbled on toward London.
Toward possibility.
The studio smelled faintly of polish and dust, the kind of room where a thousand hopefuls had sung their guts out before him. Finnley pushed the door open with a hand that only trembled a little.
Two men waited inside.
The first guy introduced himself as Theo. He sat upright, his pen poised over a notebook, his eyes sharp as if he was noting every tiny detail. His shirt was crisp, his hair neat. His body language screamed precision and control, and Finnley felt seen and measured in a single glance.
The second guy, Max, was leather and heat in human form. He leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze alive with mischief.
The kind of man who could turn a question into a dare.
Finnley pasted on his brightest grin. “So, boys, ready for a little falsetto magic?”
Theo’s expression didn’t flicker. “What part do you normally sing?”
“Depends,” Finnley shot back. “Usually on how tight the trousers are.” His laugh was too loud, and he hated that it shook at the edges.
