Zane’s phone buzzed with a family group chat notification. His mother had sent a photo of his dad’s latest office award: Supplier Excellence 2025. The chat exploded with congratulations. Zane typed a quick string of clapping emojis, then tossed the phone onto the duvet.
The silence in his room was deafening.
He sat up abruptly, pulling open his desk drawer. Under a pile of catalogues and half-scribbled lyrics lay the flyer he’d torn down yesterday. He read the words again.
Hot Leather Guys: Gay Male A Cappella. Leather. Lust. Lungs.
He traced the words with his thumb, feeling ridiculous and hopeful all at once.
They’ll probably think I’m just a pretty falsetto. Another sparkly, disposable boy.
His chest ached with the memory of the melody he’d been humming at work. He imagined it not alone, but in harmony, interlocking voices, sharp edges smoothed into something bigger.
He grabbed his phone again, typed in the audition link, and stared at the glowing screen.
Then, almost angrily, he filled in his details.
When the confirmation email pinged into his inbox, Zane lay back down, staring at the ceiling. His heart was pounding, but for once it wasn’t from pretending to be fine.
This time, maybe someone will actually hear me.
The Soho studio smelled faintly of polish and stale coffee. Zane adjusted the cuff of his shirt as he stepped into the upstairs room, light bouncing off the mirrored wall. His boots clicked against the floorboards, the sound too sharp, too loud, but he forced the smile anyway.
Always the smile.
“I’m Theo, and this is Max.”
Theo was neat and focused, professional. Max leaned forward in his chair, his leather jacket slung open, his dark eyes glittering with blatant curiosity that made Zane’s pulse stutter.
“Name?” Theo asked, his voice crisp as a metronome.
“Zane Gallagher.”
“Voice part?”
“Falsetto. Tenor, if you need it.”
Max smirked. “We’ll see what you’ve got.”
Zane’s throat tightened. He’d picked this song carefully, knowing it would either crash or catch fire: ‘Stay’ by Rihanna, stripped bare, falsetto stretched like glass. He closed his eyes and began, his voice trembling at first, then opening, climbing, daring them to follow.
The first chorus poured out of him like something raw. No sunshine, no sparkle, just ache. The smile slipped, but the sound grew stronger.
When he finished, silence pressed against him like a second skin.
Theo tapped his pen against the notebook balanced on his knee. “Your pitch is flawless. The control you have at that range is… unusual. Exceptional, even.”
Max tilted his head, studying him. “You sing as if you’re daring someone to believe you’re more than a pretty face.”
Zane forced a laugh, even as heat pricked behind his eyes. “Maybe I am.”
Theo glanced at Max, who nodded. Theo set down his pen with a smile, and Zane got the feeling they were done.
“If you’re accepted, we rehearse twice a week in central London. Max will add you to the WhatsApp group with the others.”
Zane nodded, his easy smile in place. “No problem. I’m local.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed, sharp as ever. “And you can commit? No obligations that will get in the way?”
