SIXTEEN #2
We leave the hotel with the kind of caution that has nothing to do with Amsterdam and everything to do with habit.
I scan crowds and exits without thinking.
I watch people’s hands, faces, and body language.
Civilians move around like they own the world because lets face it, most of them think they do.
The carelessness of it irritates me immediately.
Caiden walks beside me. He doesn’t scan the same way I do, but he pays attention. He glances at me once, reads the tension in my shoulders, and says nothing.
That’s another small mercy.
Amsterdam in daylight is almost offensive in its ease. Canals, bridges, people on bicycles weaving through tight spaces. Couples holding hands openly, not just men and women — men and men, women and women — leaning into each other without checking who’s watching first.
Caiden sees me looking before I can pretend that I’m not, but he doesn’t point it out. He looks up at the buildings, at the narrow windows and the way life is stacked neatly on top of itself here as if that’s normal.
Finally, we get to a museum, and I follow Caiden through rooms full of art I don’t pretend to understand. He stops in front of a painting and actually looks at it, head tilted slightly, as if he’s trying to solve a colourful puzzle.
His face does that thing where it softens when he’s genuinely interested, and I find myself watching him instead of the painting.
The light from the window catches across his skin differently in here, enough that I notice the faint freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks that I somehow never paid attention to before.
He leans closer to read the plaque beside the frame, brow furrowing slightly in concentration, and I catch myself staring at the shape of his lips instead of whatever historical nonsense he’s currently trying to absorb.
As we walk down a corridor between exhibits, Caiden’s hand brushes mine. He lets his fingers slide along my knuckles, testing my reaction and asking without words.
My body reacts before my mind can organise my thoughts — it’s a sharp, instinctive recoil. I snatch my hand back.
He doesn’t say anything, but a look of disappointment crosses his face. He tries to hide it, but I see it anyway. “Not here,” I say quietly.
He keeps his eyes forward. “We’re in Amsterdam.”
“I know,” I answer, sharper than I intend. “We can still be seen.” By who? By what? By a phantom I can’t name? By the idea that there is always someone watching?
Caiden’s jaw tightens, and he nods. “Alright.” He doesn’t argue with me, which makes me feel worse.
We walk on, standing in front of another painting. He reads another plaque. I pretend to read it too, but I’m more interested in the crowd. People move around us, indifferent, anonymous, completely free.
I should be able to hold his hand, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
When we leave the museum, it’s brighter outside, and the sky has decided to cooperate, making the city look almost cheerful. Caiden buys coffee from a small place that smells like sugar, baked dough and too much happiness. He hands me a cup without asking what I want because he knows what I drink.
The café is by the water. It’s cramped, busy, and full of voices in languages I don’t care about. We sit at a small table where Caiden’s knee bumps mine under it, and he doesn’t move away. He watches the canal for a moment, then looks back at me. “Are you alright?”
“No,” I confess because I don’t want to lie.
“Because of the hand?” he asks, eyes holding mine.
“Because of everything,” I say.
He doesn’t push, only nods. “Okay.”
It annoys me that he can be this calm about something that should make him angry. “Say something,” I tell him, because his silence makes me feel like an asshole.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” I snap, then I take a deep breath. “I want to... hold your hand,” I admit.
“Then do it.”
I clench my jaw. “It’s not that easy.”
He leans back slightly in his chair, watching me. “It can be, if you let it.” Then he reaches across the table and touches the back of my hand with his fingers. It’s the smallest possible version of the thing he wants.
A tiny compromise.
I don’t pull away this time, but my pulse races anyway, as if my body thinks it’s in danger. Caiden watches my face. “There,” he says softly. “That’s enough.”
“For now,” I say, swallowing.
“For now,” he repeats.
We leave the café and keep walking.
Amsterdam offers us a thousand places to disappear.
Markets. Side streets. Narrow bridges. Little corners where no one looks twice at anyone.
Caiden’s attention shifts between the city and me.
We stop at a canal bridge and watch a boat slide under it.
The people on the boat laugh loudly as a man kisses another man on the cheek like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Caiden glances at me, and I can feel the questions running through his head. Do you see it? Do you feel it? Do you understand what this could be?
I do. That’s the problem. Because once I let myself believe in it, it becomes something someone can take away.
We walk for another hour, stopping off to buy something greasy wrapped in paper and eat it standing up. Caiden gets sauce on his thumb and licks it off without thinking, and my brain does something unhelpful with the image.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says with his mouth full.
“Like what?” I reply automatically.
He swallows, smirking. “Like you’re deciding whether to eat me or stab someone.”
“Why not both?” I ask, and he laughs, because he understands my humour even when it’s ugly.
We wander into another museum. This one’s smaller and quieter, and I almost start to relax. At the exit, Caiden reaches for my hand again, slower this time. His fingers hover near mine, and I stare at the space between our hands.
Then I reach out and I take it.
For three steps.
For three steps, his fingers lace with mine, the city keeps moving, nobody points, nobody shouts, and nobody cares.
For three steps, it feels like we’re just two men on holiday, and the world doesn’t know anything that would hurt us.
Then a group of tourists comes too close, laughing loudly and bumping into each other. My instinct snaps hard, and I let go.
Caiden’s hand hangs in the air for a second, like he doesn’t understand what happened. Then he drops it to his side as if it were nothing.
He doesn’t look at me, which hurts more than the recoil. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Sorry is too small. Explaining is too pathetic.
So I do what I always do when I’m close to cracking. “You’re sulking.”
Caiden’s mouth tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are,” I insist. He glances at me then, and the look in his eyes is too controlled. “Stop doing that,” I say, quieter.
“Doing what?” he asks, still calm and controlled.
“Making it easy for me,” I snap because that’s what he’s doing. He’s making it easy by not fighting me, “it makes me feel like a weak coward.”
Caiden stops walking and turns fully to face me. “Ari.” I brace automatically because of how gently he says my name. “You’re not a coward,” he says.
The comment forces a sharp laugh from my throat. “That’s generous.”
“It’s true,” he replies. “You’re terrified, that’s different.”
“You want me to hold your hand—.”
“I want you to have it if you want it,” he interrupts.
“You know I want it.” I exhale through my nose, pausing for a minute. “Just... give me some time,” I say finally.
“Alright,” Caiden says, nodding his head. That should be enough to make me feel better.
So why does it make me feel worse?