Chapter Four
Hans
He returned to his stool, the space beside him empty, the air already cooled from where Adrik had sat. Herschel stood before him, polishing a glass.
“He paid and left. Said nothing,” Herschel said.
“Damn,” Hans muttered, the word heavier than he meant it to be. To say he was disappointed was an understatement. He’d felt something—just a flicker, but enough to matter—and now it was gone.
“Has he been in here before?” Hans asked, lifting his beer and taking a slow sip.
“Never.” Herschel turned to the man sitting on Hans’ other side. “Have you ever seen him before?”
The man nodded. “He lives in the cottage with the red door and red flowers out front. Moved in two days ago.”
Hans leaned forward, trying not to sound too eager. “Really? Can you be more specific than the cottage with the red door?”
“You can spot the navy clapboard and white trim cottage immediately outside this bar. Navy blue. The address is Am Strom Kai 12.”
“Thanks,” Hans whispered. “Does he live alone?”
“Yes. No one but the movers had been there before he arrived.”
Hans frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“Live next door,” the man replied, shrugging.
Hans finished his beer, but the taste was flat now, dulled by the weight in his chest. He walked away from the bar, the sound of Baltic waves filling the salty air.
His feet brought him almost without thought to Am Strom Kai, where the cottage stood with its neat navy siding, white trim, and that bright red door framed by red flowers.
Hans stood outside Adrik’s cottage for a long moment, heart thudding, before turning away.
The porch light glowed, a soft halo against the wood, and for a second he pictured himself stepping into it, knocking, being welcomed in.
He could almost hear Adrik’s laugh, low and warm, the kind that made Hans feel seen.
But the fear was louder. Every step closer to that door carried the echo of Dirk’s silence.
Two years together, and then nothing. No fight, no goodbye, just a sudden absence that hollowed him out.
Hans had stared at his phone for weeks, waiting for a message that never came, replaying old conversations like they might reveal some hidden clue.
The unanswered questions had carved scars he still carried, and the thought of risking that kind of devastation again made his stomach twist.
He walked down the path, the crunch of frost under his boots sharp in the quiet night.
The glow of Adrik’s window followed him, a square of warmth against the dark, and he couldn’t help imagining what it might feel like inside.
With a fire crackling, Adrik’s voice filling the space, the kind of belonging Hans had been aching for since Dirk had vanished five years ago.
The contrast was brutal—the cold emptiness of Dirk’s ghosting against the imagined comfort of Adrik’s cottage.
Hans shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill.
Maybe tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe next time.
He clung to the thought like a lifeline, bargaining with his own fear.
If he waited, if he gave it just one more day, maybe he’d be braver.
Maybe Adrik would still be there, still smiling, willing to open the door.
But another voice whispered back, the one that remembered Dirk’s silence too well: Maybe tomorrow will be too late. Maybe you’ll lose him before you even try.
Hans shook his head, forcing the thought away, but it lingered like smoke.
He kept walking; the night swallowing him up, carrying both the fragile hope of tomorrow and the heavy dread of history repeating itself.
And behind him, the cottage light glowed, unwavering like a promise he couldn’t yet bring himself to claim.
Back at his own place, Hans sat alone in the quiet with the night pressing in.
He wondered if he’d ever run into Adrik again, or if that brief spark had already burned out before it had a chance to catch.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet.
He frowned, picked it up, and froze when he heard the voice.
“Hans.”
It was so familiar it hurt. A sharp pain tore through his chest.
“Dirk? What do you want? It’s been five fucking years.”
“Are you still living in Warnemünde?”
Hans gritted his teeth. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I was hoping we could meet to talk.”
“Not available.”
“Then I’ll tell you on the phone.”
“Why bother?” Hans snapped, his knuckles white around the phone.
“I wanted you to hear it from me. Not others.”
“I don’t give a fuck about you.”
“I’m getting married. To Bruno. We’re moving to Sicily.”
Hans’ stomach sank, a cold, heavy feeling. “Bruno Greco?” He didn’t need this information. Bruno had once been his friend with benefits after Dirk vanished, before Bruno left for Italy.
“Yes. I thought we could have a drink to talk things over.”
Hans didn’t answer. He ended the call and blocked the number, his hand trembling as he set the phone down. The silence afterward was deafening.
The pain was unbearable. After five years, Dirk had returned only to hurt him deeper, to strip away what little respect Hans had left for Dirk and maybe for himself.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the half-written scene on his laptop.
The fictional mobster got the guy. Hans, meanwhile, was left with ghosts, regrets, and the bitter taste of beer.
Then his thoughts drifted back to Adrik.
The smirk, the way his eyes had lingered, the subtle brush of his shoulder.
Hans felt the pull again, that dangerous magnetism.
He wanted to lean into it, to see where it led.
But the memory of Dirk’s voice still echoed in his chest, reminding him of how bad things could break.
Walk away, his rational side whispered. Protect yourself.
But another voice, quieter and more reckless, whispered back: Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time, trouble is exactly what you need.
Hans closed his laptop, drained the last of his beer, and sat in the dim light of his office, caught between the ache of the past and the lure of something new
Hans couldn’t sit in that office anymore.
The walls felt too close, the silence too heavy.
He grabbed his jacket, shoved his hands into the pockets, and stepped out into the chilly night air.
The sea wasn’t far—just a short walk through the cobblestone streets of Warnemünde—and he needed the salt wind, the crash of waves, something bigger than the mess in his chest.
The October air bit his skin, sharp and bracing, but he welcomed it. His boots crunched against the frozen sand as he made his way down to the shoreline. The sea stretched out in front of him, dark and endless, the moonlight breaking across the waves like shards of glass.
Dirk’s voice still echoed in his head, every word reopening old wounds. Five years had passed, Hans clenched his fists in his pockets, anger mixing with grief. He hated that Dirk could still reach him, still stir up pain he thought he’d buried.
But then Adrik’s face rose in his mind again—the smirk, the steady gaze, the way his shoulder had brushed his like it meant something. Trouble, yes. Big trouble. But trouble that felt alive, magnetic, dangerous in a way that made Hans’ pulse quicken instead of ache.
He stood at the edge of the water; the waves lapping close to his boots, and let the wind whip through his hair.
He thought about what it would mean to lean into Adrik, to risk it.
To let himself want again. Was he strong enough to survive another disappointment?
Or was he already too far gone, already hooked by the possibility of something new?
The sea roared back at him, indifferent, eternal. Hans exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping his throat. He wasn’t committing—not yet. But he wasn’t walking away either.
For now, he let the Baltic carry his thoughts, the cold air numbing the pain, the horizon reminding him that there was still something ahead. Somewhere between Dirk’s betrayal and Adrik’s dangerous allure, Hans stood at a crossroads, the waves crashing like a dare.