“That matters a great deal.”
We moved on without urgency, the market unfolding around us in light and colour, our steps unhurried, our conversation drifting in and out of silence with ease.
Nothing demanded our attention.
Nothing needed resolving.
We were simply here, together. And there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
Epilogue
September
Stefan
The church was filledwith the low murmur of conversation, the soft shift of leather, the occasional creak of movement as people settled into their pews. We might not have been there to worship, but the air carried a kind of reverence.
I had always appreciated that about the Classic Meets Fetish concert. Tonight, however, my attention was elsewhere.
Kieran stood beside the piano, speaking quietly with Tyrone, his posture relaxed, his expression focused. He wore black leather—clean lines, understated, nothing excessive—and it suited him in a way that still caught me off guard.
He inhabits it completely.
There was no hesitation left, no trace of the man who’d once stood outside Prinzknecht, uncertain whether to step inside. Except that wasn’t true. That man was still there, no longer held back by uncertainty, no longer defined by it. The man standing on that stage had taken his place gradually over the last ninemonths. Kieran was more confident, more self-assured, more certain of what he wanted.
And unafraid to grab it.
The man I love.
Kieran turned, catching my eye across the space. His brief smile was only for me. I inclined my head in return, then glanced around me, looking for familiar faces.
Karl sat about four rows from the front, his attention fixed on the programme in his hands, my empty seat next to his. On his other side were Diana and Miles, leaning towards each other, speaking quietly.
It was a strange thing, seeing all the threads of Kieran’s life gathered in one place. Manchester, Berlin, past, present…. Not in conflict, but aligned.
Everyone took their seats and the concert began. Music filled the space, each performance received with attentive silence. When it was Kieran’s turn to walk onto the stage, my chest swelled with pride. I had to smile, remembering his reaction at Easter when Tyrone had contacted him to ask if he would consider performing.
His smile hadn’t quit for a week.
Kieran acknowledged the audience with a small, composed nod before taking his seat at the piano. He sat there for a moment, still, focused, and then the first notes carried through the space, clean and deliberate, Beethoven unfolding with quiet authority, the harmonies settling into the room as though they belonged there.
I’d heard him rehearse this repeatedly. I knew every phrase, every shift, and yet this was not the same. His playing had changed. Not in technique—that had never been in question—but in intent. There was a willingness to let the music breathe rather than control it, to shape without forcing, to follow where it led instead of dictating the direction.
I saw it for what it was. Trust, in the music, in himself. I recognised it immediately, because I knew where it had come from. This was not simply interpretation.
This was Kieran, unfiltered and unrestrained. There was a certainty to his playing that filled me with joy to hear it.
When the final note faded, the silence held for a fraction longer than expected, as though the audience had needed a moment to return to itself.
Then the applause began, and Kieran stood, acknowledging it with a bow. I loved the air of satisfaction that clung to him, how unshaken he seemed by the rapturous reception. I would have loved to have him sit next to me for the remainder of the concert, but he had to stay backstage. I’d have to wait until the interval.
Then it hit me.
He hadn’t moved.
Instead, he stepped forward again, his hand resting on the edge of the piano.
“There is something else I would like to play for you now.” His German was fluent, effortless. “A premiere.”