Chapter 05 MILOS
I’m stupid.
I’m so fucking stupid, it’s not even funny.
“How could you lose the number, Veronika?“
I ask for what feels like the umpteenth time in the last three days.
Three. Fucking. Days.
Three days since the shoot that was supposed to be a fluke turned out not to be a damn fluke at all. But what feels like my damned salvation.
Two days since I found out the number he put in my sister’s phone—because of course mine was out of juice—is apparently not working.
And one day since I started to really freak out about the very real prospect of never seeing Kaiden again.
Kaiden. No last name. No way to find him besides all the shit I’ve obviously already tried.
It’s like I know everything about him, and nothing at the same time.
I know how that dimple pops when he gives me that soft, secretive smile.
I know how those lips taste when they brush mine.
I know how his eyes flare when he laughs.
Those fuck-me eyes…
And I would. I would fuck him. Or shit, probably would let him fuck me first.
Even if fuck feels way too crude a word for what I actually want to do with him.
Everything. The answer is everything.
I don’t believe in this fate or love-of-your-life bullshit, but fuck, even I can’t ignore what was happening right there in front of me.
What was happening to me.
And now I have no way to reach him.
Or even worse…
Maybe he gave me a fake number.
“You think he gave me a fake number?“
I voice the thought when Nika doesn’t reply. Again. It’s not like I haven’t asked her that exact question ten times already.
She sighs, and I glare at her where she’s doing a handstand against my floor-to-ceiling windows, her polka-dotted socks pressed against the glass, the gray winter sky and even grayer river IJ behind her.
She can’t fucking sit still for two damn minutes. Always stretching, doing the splits, hanging upside down from the railing of my loft, turning my place into some kind of personal rehearsal studio.
Pointing my torch at her—the one I’d been using to bend neon tubing before she hijacked my afternoon meltdown—I narrow my eyes. “You really think it wasn’t on purpose?”
“Milos…“
Another sigh as she drops back onto her feet, turning the right way up again, hands landing on her hips. “No. I really think he meant to meet up with you. Truly. I’m so fucking sorry, segra.”
I deflate, leaning my ass back against the workstation that takes up almost the entire wall opposite the windows. Tubes, burners, glass rods and tools are scattered everywhere, half-finished neon pieces glowing softly around the studio.
My workshop lives down here. The messy, chaotic part of my life.
Upstairs, the loft stretches across half the room where I sleep, eat, and pretend I’m a functioning adult.
I love my place. My home. I really do.
But right now, none of it helps.
Because none of it gets me Kaiden back.
“I know you are. But he’s leaving for Spain,“
I mutter for what also feels like the umpteenth time, the knot in my stomach pulling even tighter as my sister moves to the kitchen to make coffee.
He told me that. Standing there in the snow, both of us shivering, teeth almost clattering as we shared bits and pieces of our lives between stupid grins and stolen glances.
Told me he was more than ready to escape the miserable Dutch weather for a bit and head to the sunny south of Spain. Spend Christmas there with his mother. Spend the winter there with his family.
For two. Fucking. Months.
And shit, if I can’t get ahold of him today, he’ll probably forget all about me during that time.
When he got a call right after the kiss, he apologized, said he had another job he needed to get to. Gave his number, made me promise I’d call him so we could meet up this weekend before he left.
To see if we matched.
So I did call him. I fucking did.
And when it bounced, I immediately re-downloaded the HandlR app—I’ve actually used their services before—and requested some last-minute help through their platform yesterday. And again this morning.
Just to see if he’d be the one who showed up to haul several completed pieces through Amsterdam to their designated new homes.
Spoiler alert: he didn’t.
“I know, honey. You can try to call Sadie again?”
Yeah. Did that too.
I caved this morning when my second request on HandlR wasn’t fruitful either. It was a last resort, because one: if he had indeed given me a fake number, it would’ve been embarrassing as hell. And two: I’m pretty sure she’s not allowed to give me any information without his consent.
Which turned out to be true.
“She was boarding the plane to get back home but will contact him when she lands,“
I explain as I push off from my desk and move to the kitchen beneath the loft, where my sister is already pushing a mug of coffee into my hands like I’m five and need supervision. Her own coffee is in a to-go cup since she has to leave for the ballet soon.
“See? It’ll be okay. Just wait for her to call back, okay? He’s probably waiting to hear from you.”
I groan when she pulls on her stupid metallic jacket and steps into her Uggs, ready to head out like she hasn’t just dismantled my entire emotional stability for the day.
“I know. I let him down. He probably hates me now.”
And the stupidest thing is, even though I explained to him I get lost in my world sometimes, this time I didn’t. Not at all.
I worked, of course. I’ve never finished my outstanding commissions this fast. He was like a damn muse, a flash of inspiration. I spent that first day in my bubble, a manic grin on my face as I finished piece after piece, glass bending perfectly under my hands.
Because I thought about him the whole damn time.
His eyes. His soft chuckle. His damn lips I want to feel again.
So yeah, I didn’t get lost in my art. I got lost thinking about him.
“You’re a bit dramatic sometimes, you know that?“
A smack from her leopard-printed gloves lands against my head.
“I’m an artist. We tend to be a bit moody.“
I push past her to the fridge and pull out a bag of M&M’s like that’s a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism.
She rolls her eyes and grabs her cup. “Just wait. It’ll get sorted out. You’ll explain it to him and he’ll understand. Christ, he looked at you like—”
“Like what?”
“Like you hung the moon or something.”
I swallow. “But he’ll be in Spain for the next two months.”
“Then you fly to Spain,“
she almost hisses at me, exasperated. “Milos, segra, it’s only a three-hour flight for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he’ll be on the other side of the world. Be spontaneous. Be romantic. Take a little leap. Besides, some sun would do your sparkling personality wonders. I hope. Bye now.”
And with that, she leaves my place, the door slamming shut behind her.
A sigh escapes me as I haul my coffee and snack upstairs to the living slash sleeping area. It’s not massive, but it’s big enough for me. There's a cozy corner with a sectional pressed against the glass and a TV mounted on the opposite wall.
And no, there isn’t any neon up here.
I’d go crazy if it never turned off.
I throw the bag of M&M’s onto the table, pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, and collapse onto my amazing, comfy couch like the world just personally offended me.
Feet up. Head back. And no real plan.
Nika’s right. I can only wait and hope that the man who already feels half like a dream will forgive me for fucking this up.
He’s a good dream. So I have to believe he won’t disappear that easily.
Right?
I pull up my socials and start scrolling through my endless feed, trying to drown my thoughts in mindless reels and pictures. Focus on something else. Anything else. Drink my coffee.
And immediately spit it right back out.
Those eyes.
Those vivid, electric blue eyes.
A kind of blue that’s so damn unique it almost looks edited.
They stare right back at me from my screen as I freeze mid-scroll and click on one of my favorite Biketok accounts.
And suddenly, I know exactly where I’ve seen them before.