Chapter Fourteen
Hans
Hans hadn’t expected the night to start with a punch to the gut, but that’s exactly what walking into the club was like.
The moment he and Adrik stepped through the doors, the bass hit him first—deep, chest-thudding, the kind of beat that made the floor vibrate.
Colored lights swept across the crowd in dizzying arcs.
Men packed the dance floor, bodies slick with sweat, shirts half-open or not worn at all.
Tight jeans, leather harnesses, mesh tops—Rostock’s finest, dressed like they were auditioning for a calendar shoot.
Hans’ breath hitched, the air thickening, as shadows of his past clawed at him, pulling him back into the abyss.
Of all the places… why here?
He didn’t blame Adrik—how could he? The man did not know this was the same club Hans and Dirk used to haunt every night. Even so, the air was too familiar, too heavy.
Adrik, oblivious to the storm brewing in Hans’ chest, grinned and nudged him toward an empty booth. “Sit. I’ll get us drinks.”
Before Hans could protest, Adrik flagged down a server and rattled off their order in German. The server nodded, impressed. Hans couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him.
“Show-off,” he muttered under his breath.
When the drinks arrived, Adrik slid one over and leaned back. “You wanna dance?”
Hans hesitated. The music, the lights, the crowd—it all pressed in on him. But Adrik was looking at him with that hopeful spark, and Hans couldn’t say no.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”
They stepped onto the dance floor, and Hans quickly realized he had underestimated Adrik. The man moved like he’d been born under a strobe light—fluid, confident, circling Hans with a teasing swagger that made Hans blink.
Where the hell did he learn to dance like this?
He’d known Adrik was full of surprises, but this? This was something else.
Then a tall, skinny guy with pink hair and black combat boots danced behind Adrik, mirroring his moves, got a little too close—handsy, grinding, clearly assuming Adrik was fair game. Before Hans could try to pull him away, Adrik shoved his hips back so hard the guy toppled onto the floor.
The music didn’t even pause, but the people around them sure did.
Two security guards rushed over, helping the young man up. Adrik didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at Hans. He just kept dancing, pretending like nothing had happened.
But the night wasn’t done with him.
Dirk appeared out of nowhere, like bad luck had grown a body and shoved itself between Hans and Adrik. He grabbed Hans’ arm hard enough to jolt him.
“Hans!” Dirk shouted, his voice cutting through the bass thumping from the speakers. “We need to talk.”
Hans froze. His stomach dropped straight through the floor. “Dirk—don’t.”
Before Hans could pull back, Adrik was there—fast, sharp, all instinct—yanking Hans behind him. “Get your hands off him.” The German rolled out of him perfectly, clean and precise, nothing like the clumsy version he used during the day.
Dirk sneered. “This isn’t your business.”
Hans barely had time to blink before Adrik’s fist connected with Dirk’s jaw. The impact cracked through the music—loud enough that a few people nearby actually turned their heads. Dirk staggered, boots scraping against the sticky floor, then caught himself and lunged back with a snarl.
The crowd reacted instantly—chairs scraping, people shouting, bodies shifting to get out of the way or get a better look.
The music kept pounding, but the fight carved its own rhythm: the thud of feet, the sharp breaths, the angry German flying between them.
Hans couldn’t even make out the words at first—just raw fury, old resentment, and the kind of macho posturing that made the whole room feel tighter.
And through it all, one thought kept hammering in Hans’ head: Why doesn’t Adrik speak German like this during the day? Why pretend he can’t? What else is he hiding?
Then Adrik’s voice rose above everything, slicing through the noise.
“If you go near Hans again, you’re dead!”
Perfect German. Clear. Threatening.
Dirk didn’t even blink. “Hans and I have unfinished business.”
A cold sweat slicked Hans’ skin, and the world swam as he gripped the edge of a table. Heat crawled up his neck. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the floorboards, to be anywhere but between these two men and whatever history they were dragging into the open.
Security finally muscled their way in—big guys in black shirts, shouting over the chaos. They wedged themselves between Adrik and Dirk, pushing them apart and barking orders. The crowd groaned, disappointed the show was over.
Adrik didn’t argue. He just crossed his arms and stared Dirk down, jaw tight, eyes cold, waiting until security forced Dirk to stay put while Hans and Adrik were ushered out first.
Hans could still feel the echo of Dirk’s grip on his arm. And the echo of Adrik’s voice—perfect German, sharp as a blade—was even harder to shake.
Outside, the cold air slapped Hans awake.
His old friend Bruno stood near the entrance—Dirk’s so-called fiancé.
Hans recognized him with all his shiny gold jewelry.
He hadn’t changed much, still looked like an Italian movie star with his dark hair and eyes, and was built like an American football player. Some things never change.
“Where’s Dirk?” Bruno asked.
Hans snapped. “Fuck Dirk. And fuck you.”
Adrik stepped forward, protective as ever. “Who are you?”
German again. Smooth, confident, not a single stumble. Hans’ stomach tightened. Where was all this vocabulary hiding during the day? And why pretend he didn’t know it?
“Hans is an old friend of mine,” Bruno blurted.
Hans barely heard him. His attention stayed locked on Adrik—on the way he squared his shoulders, on the sharpness in his voice, on the version of himself he kept tucked away until moments like this.
It wasn’t just the language anymore. It was the ease.
The authority. Like this was the real Adrik, and the quiet, awkward one Hans woke up next to was only half the story.
And suddenly, Hans wasn’t sure which version he was supposed to trust.
Adrik took his hand, and Hans didn’t resist. He let Adrik lead him away, back toward the train station, away from the club, away from Dirk, away from the past clawing at his heels.
For the first time all night, Hans could breathe again.
The fight, the perfect German Adrik shouldn’t have been able to speak—everything had been pressing on his ribs like a vise.
But now, on the train, with Adrik beside him and the city humming past the windows, the pressure eased just enough for him to think straight.
They rode mostly in silence. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. Like both of them were pretending the night hadn’t been a mess. Neither asking the questions they both had. Then Adrik finally spoke.
“Are you still going to spend the night?”
Hans tilted his head toward him, leaning close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Adrik’s ear. “I’m looking forward to it.”
And he was. That was the problem.