Chapter 44
Chapter forty-four
Tom
Iused to move through this city like I was the duke of the night.
Amsterdam’s darkness offered me an escape. I could disappear, just another face in the crowd. No one recognized me as I wandered through the streets, hoodie pulled low, the burnt-herb taste of White Widow on my tongue.
Disappearing into alleys, I’d find rats fattening themselves behind tourist-trap restaurants. Invisible hands touching palms in discreet exchanges. Product for cash.
It was raw and ugly and real, and somehow I’d made a home in the parts of town people pretend don’t exist. That overlooked harshness had fed half my catalog.
Not anymore.
Now the same darkness feels…softer. Almost mystical.
The canals shimmer instead of reflecting something I don’t want to see.
Streets feel alive instead of haunted. And I’m walking through them with a glowing firefly at my side, calm and bright in a way that makes me furious with the universe for not giving me him sooner.
I want to say I wish, but I’ve learned to be careful with that word.
So instead, I let myself be curious. About what life would’ve looked like if we’d met ten years ago, when we were still stumbling into adulthood. Into our sexuality. Into ourselves.
What if we’d grown into that together, instead of alone.
It’s easy to romanticise it. Two younger versions of us, falling fast, loving recklessly.
No ghosts. No scars. Only summer heat and the world wide open.
But then I think, maybe we wouldn’t have known how to handle each other back then.
Maybe we needed those brutal detours. The loneliness.
The pain. Maybe that road has changed us into people who can actually hold what we have now.
Who know how to stay, take responsibility and actually take care of each other.
So what if this is exactly how it was always meant to unfold? Raised by life separately, broken and rebuilt in different cities, so that when we finally met, we were ready for each other.
Even if it comes with a heavy past, with the pain we don’t show, it’s still worth it.
Every second of every night I laid on the floor, wrecked and alone. If this is where it led? Man. I’d pay that price over and over again.
I tug my scarf tighter.
Yosh keeps rattling off unhinged sentences about God knows what, jumping from one unfinished subject to the next.
I love it when he gets like this. A bit crazy, a bit manic.
He usually calms me down and I need that, but sometimes he’s different.
I don’t know how, but he gives me the fire and chaos I fucking live for.
Out of nowhere, his hands clamp onto my shoulders, a quick graze of his teeth on my neck. What the hell?
“You need to steal one back.”
He runs off like he’s just nicked a jewellery store’s emeralds. Which wouldn’t surprise me. Yosh is a magpie when it comes to beautiful and shiny things.
I sprint after him, wondering how the hell 34 suddenly feels more like twelve. But you know what? There aren’t any rules for how you’re allowed to feel. Right now, age feels optional.
“Yeah, keep running! You don’t even know where to go!” I shout after him, playing my only card. There’s no universe where I outrun him. Yosh does half-marathons before breakfast, and I can’t even make it to the kettle before eight.
Every now and then he lets me get close, only to dart off chuckling, and circling as I'm about to catch him.
I chase him around the corner and throw myself onto his back, kissing the spot behind his ear I know makes him weak and hard within seconds.
People are staring, so I drop back to the pavement quickly. Yosh has gone still beside me, his attention fixed on the spectacle in front of us.
A swimming sea of lights reflects in his eyes, the wonder in his expression is worth everything. It’s pure, childlike; something I’ve never seen in him before.
I squeeze his hand. “Beautiful isn’t it?”
“It’s like a fairytale.”
I settle my hands on his shoulders and take in everything in front of our eyes.
The ice skate rink, the million Christmas lights in the trees around us.
In the background is the I Love Amsterdam sign in front of the city’s iconic Rijksmuseum that I can imagine looks like a royal palace to Yosh.
There are wooden stalls next to the rink where they sell hot chocolate and probably Belgian waffles by the smell of it.
After months in the tropics, I’d almost forgotten what the dark, cozy days before Christmas feel like.
What they smell like. I’m instantly reminded.
I nod at the rink. “You know how to skate?”
Yosh spins around, eyebrows high. “What!? Ice skating? You’re serious?”
“Don’t tell me you can’t, love.”
His eyes flick to the rink and back. “Never. Not once.”
“Roller skating then?”
He shakes his head. “Never.”
I tug his hand, already pulling him forward. “Come on. You throw me on a board every weekend. Now it’s my turn.”
“God, this is going to end with broken bones,” he mutters, but he lets me drag him along.
I squeeze his hand tighter. “Not while you’re with me.”
The wooden planks creak under our feet. I grab a pair of skates in his size and shove them into his hands. We make our way to one of the benches, and I drop to my knees to lace him in. He watches the people on the ice, wincing when a kid nearly falls before catching the dasher board.
When his skates are tight, I lace up my own and push myself to my feet.
“Alright,” I say, offering him a hand. “It’s easier than it looks. Besides, you’re the balanced one, should be easy peasy for you.”
At the boards, I step onto the ice first. He follows, instantly grabbing my arm and hanging on for dear life. Cute as hell. But I know him. It’s not the possibility of bruises that bothers him, it’s the loss of control. That’s when he gets dramatic and cranky, and I absolutely live for it.
“Easy,” I say, skating backward while keeping his hands in mine.
His eyes widen. “Wait…what are you doing?”
“Relax. Look at me. Lean forward, push, glide.”
His right foot slides out, shaky as hell, the left one reluctantly catching up. It’s clumsy, but it’s movement.
“You’re doing fine, love. Now try the other. Think of it like dancing.”
“I don’t dance. We’ve covered this.”
He keeps trying. Another slide, one more.
“Keep your balance. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Trust me.”
“I trust you, not so sure about the ice, though.”
I laugh. “The ice isn’t your enemy. Think of it as a new friend.”
“This friend feels like it’s going to give me an open fracture any second.”
He tries again, and his runs come a little smoother, though he still clings to me. Then his grip loosens and I take that as my chance to let go.
“Wait, where are you going? Don’t you dare, McKenna! I hate you. I hate you!”
“See? You’re still standing. Not bad for a rookie.”
“I swear, if I wake up covered in bruises—”
“I’ll kiss them all better. Now try to get over here.”
He tries, and with every pass I see him more relaxed. That’s the trick. Confidence keeps your feet on the ice. His movements come smoother each time.
“Look at you, you’re doing it!”
He comes at me, balancing the way he does when he’s pretending to be a flamingo in his yoga class. Then he grips my arm and I brace against the dasher board.
Absolutely necessary because he’s no damsel I can just scoop off the ice. He’s more of a Great Dane that thinks he’s a lapdog. If he goes down, I do too.
I nod at the wooden drawbridge over the rink. “Come, let’s skate underneath.”
“Okay, wait. Turning isn’t easy.”
“I know. No need to rush. Take your time.”
His skates wobble, and I want to tell him it’s easier with a wide turn, but he’s already halfway, so I let him figure it out. Then he skates back to me, our hands finding each other.
Together we go for the bridge, skating smooth and easy. Yosh isn’t even focused on his feet anymore. His eyes wander to the glowing trees, the people skating past, everything around us. Then down to our hands, held out in the open. He gives me a smile that spikes my dopamine levels.
It’s the first time I see him this carefree since everything that happened last month, and it makes me stupidly happy.
Just a few more paces and we slide under the bridge. A group of teenagers crowd under the bridge and we have to maneuver around them. I need to let go of Yosh’s hand.
“Tom, stay with me!”
“I’m right behind you.”
We burst out the other side and Yosh’s arm flies in the air, his skates veering sideways. A dramatic yelp follows.
I act fast, using all my weight to pin him against one of the bridge’s pillars before he can go down. We crash chest to chest, the impact rough, but I’ve got him. His breath is quick and burning, our noses almost touching.
I hold him in my grip until I’m sure he’s steady on his feet again.
“That was close,” he pants.
“Still hate me?”
“Never said that.”
“I hate you, McKenna,” I repeat in my best dramatic impression of him.
He chuckles, arms landing on my shoulders, planting a quick kiss on my cheek.
My hand rests on his hip, holding him close. Not tight, just enough to make it clear; I’m not letting him go. Not on the ice, not tonight, not ever.
His scent of jasmine mixed into the icy sharpness of the winter air, floods my senses. Equal parts comfort and chaos, and it’s his alone. It’s what I need.
The sound of skates scraping the ice and laughter move past us. Winter in Amsterdam, just as I remember. It hasn’t always been the best season for me, but this year, Christmas is mine.
My gaze slides down to his lips. They’re soft, slightly parted, and flushed from the cold. They look perfect, like everything else about him.
I admire the way he fits in my arms before dipping in and kissing warmth back into his cold lips.
He stiffens, back pressing into the pillar.
“We’re in a blind spot, no one’s looking our way.”
He needed to hear that, because it’s only now that his body softens against mine. His lips open for me, warm and yielding, the last tremor of hesitation fading as I tug his hip against my waist.
He moves his hand, fingers arching over the back of my neck, palm settling on my jaw; he’s telling me he’s all in.
“You taste like winter,” I whisper against his mouth.“And something sweeter. Something that reminds me of home.”
He searches my face. “Home? You mean…”
My smile deepens. “Yeah, love. Amsterdam’s nice and all, but home is with you. Just you.”
A rosy flush spreads across his cheeks. The way his teeth catch his lower lip tells me he’s taking in every word.
His finger hooks into the half-open zipper of my jacket, tugging me closer. His mouth finds mine again, slower this time. Unhurried. Each sweep of his tongue leaves no doubt where I belong.
“Let’s go back to Chez Brothel,” he whispers. “There’s something waiting for you.”