It wasn’t. His job was to cross-reference order numbers for bulk purchases of staplers and highlighters. His father had called it a “temporary” position. Two years in, Zane was fluent in the language of corporate stationery. He could tell someone the difference between ink densities without blinking.
He could also tell someone how it felt to die slowly while smiling, so nobody noticed.
His coworkers adored him. Zane brought in cupcakes for birthdays, stuck banners up in the break room, and remembered anniversaries. He kept the whole place running on good coffee and good manners. And in return? They never asked about him, only about who he was dating, whether he’d auditioned for some talent show, asking if he’d considered modelling, if he was still “doing the singing thing, for fun.”
Always for fun.
He smiled at every question, because that was what he did. He smiled, and he sparkled.
If you sparkle hard enough, no one notices you’re fading.
“Zane.”
The single word landed like a paperweight. His father, Malcolm Gallagher, stood in the doorway of the open-plan office, his pinstripe suit immaculate, not a steel-grey hair out of place. A man who’d never once second-guessed himself.
Zane sat up straighter. “Morning, Dad.”
“Can you come to my office for a minute?”
No. “Of course.”
In there, everything was sharper, colder. No banners, no cupcakes, just a wall of binders and a desk so polished it threw his reflection back at him.
“I need you to take on the Henderson account,” Dad said briskly. “It means bigger orders, more responsibility. Stephen’s already handling his own load at the fire station, so this is yours.”
Zane’s throat tightened. “Right. Of course.”
Dad studied him for a long moment. “You’re good with people. That’s useful here. But you need to remember something. Charm doesn’t build a business—discipline does. Don’t let yourself get distracted.”
The dismissal was smooth, casual.
Zane smiled. “Got it.” He headed back to his own desk, and as he reached it, his phone buzzed. A text from Stephen.
Did you hear about the fire last night? Long shift. I won’t be in today. Don’t let anyone walk over you.
That was Stephen all over, protective, but never seeing what was going on with Zane. Stephen had saved strangers from burning buildings.
Zane just had to make sure nobody saw he was already singed at the edges.
He flipped his phone face-down, humming that melody under his breath again, only it was stronger this time. Sharper. It felt like a lifeline he was daring himself to grab.
He knew why. He’d seen the poster yesterday.Hot Leather Guys. Gay Male A Cappella. Lust. Lungs. Leather.He hadn’t told a soul about his plan, but the idea thrummed in him louder than any spreadsheet.
Invoice codes won’t save me. But maybe music will.
Zane let himself into the terraced house his parents still called “ours,” though it felt more like a showroom than a home. They’d gutted the original space to create something more open. Neutral walls, cream carpet, framed prints of sunsets ordered from some catalogue. Nothing messy.
Nothing personal.
He kicked off his boots by the door and padded upstairs, loosening his tie. In the bathroom mirror, his reflection smiled back at him, the reflex so automatic it startled him.
Even alone, I’m still performing.
Letting the smile fall was like dropping a dumbbell. His face looked younger, more tired. Too much eyeliner from Friday night still smudged faintly at the corners of his lashes.
I’m surprised Dad didn’t mention that.
In his room—the same one he’d grown up in, though he’d tried to adultify it with a better duvet cover and some plants—he sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. His friends’ lives gleamed back at him in filtered fragments: gigs, exhibitions, partners who called them “home” in captions.
