Chapter Seventeen
Hans
Hans left Adrik’s cottage with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the cold air hitting him hard.
The path back was quiet, too quiet, and he wished the Seebrise was still open.
A drink, some noise, anything to drown out the mess in his head.
But the neon sign was dark, the windows shuttered. Too late for distractions.
With a kick, he sent a loose stone skittering across the sidewalk, his irritation mirroring the stone’s erratic movement.
Russian. Adrik had spoken Russian. Perfectly.
And perfect German, too—after insisting he barely understood it.
Always English with Hans, always that shy smile like he was trying his best. Hans was mortified at having fallen for it.
Who even was this man? What else had he lied about?
He shouldn’t be sleeping with a stranger. He knew that. He repeated it to himself, hoping it might stick.
But another part of him—the softer, more pathetic part—was already mourning the breakup.
He’d fallen for Adrik fast, embarrassingly fast. He enjoyed waking up knowing he’d see him.
Liked the way Adrik listened, the way he laughed, the way he made his life feel less empty.
Hans had finally had something to look forward to, and now it was gone.
By the time Hans reached his cottage, his chest felt tight in an annoying, lingering way that made it hard to breathe normally. The place greeted him with its usual smell—a mix of old coffee and dust. He kicked the door shut with his heel and headed straight for the fridge.
He grabbed a beer, popped it open, and took a long swallow.
The cold hit his throat sharp and clean, a slight relief.
He wandered into his study, stepping over a pile of mail he kept meaning to sort.
Adrik had hated this place—the clutter, the dust, the way nothing had a proper home.
He’d even told Hans, half-teasing and half-serious, to hire a cleaning service.
Hans snorted under his breath. Yeah. Maybe he should have listened.
His study was the worst of the lot. Papers everywhere—stacked on the floor, shoved into leaning towers on the desk, spilling out of half-open drawers.
His old leather chair squeaked when he sat down, the sound familiar and a little pathetic.
A half-burned candle sat near his laptop, wax pooled over the rim because he’d forgotten to blow it out last week.
His bulletin board was a chaotic mess of sticky notes, character sketches, and a grocery list from two months ago.
He opened his laptop; the screen lit up the room with a cold blue glow.
His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment before he started typing—picking up the scene where his mobster protagonist got thrown out of an apartment.
Fitting. If Hans had to be alone tonight, then his main character could damn well be alone too.
Misery loved company, even fictional company.
He drained the rest of his beer, the empty bottle clinking softly as he set it on a stack of books. He went back to the kitchen for another, stepping around a pair of boots. He cracked open the second beer and wandered back to the window out of habit more than intention.
He stood there, staring out into the dark yard, the cold bottle sweating in his hand, wishing he didn’t feel like he’d just walked away from something he wasn’t ready to lose.
And there he was.
Adrik stood on the sidewalk, half in shadow, smoking like he had nowhere else to be. Hans froze, beer halfway to his mouth. A rush of anger hit him first—too sharp, too fresh. He wasn’t ready to face him. Not like this.
He eased the blind down just enough to hide himself but kept a sliver open.
He watched Adrik take a long drag, then flick the cigarette to the ground and stomp it out with that impatient, city-boy stomp.
God, he was such a New Yorker. Everything about him screamed it.
So what was he doing here in this little German town, pretending to be someone he wasn’t?
Hans pressed his forehead to the cool window frame, torn clean down the middle. Part of him wanted to storm outside and demand answers. The other part wanted to walk outside, grab Adrik by the jacket, and pull him into his arms like none of this had happened.
He stayed where he was, hidden behind the blind, heart aching in a way he didn’t want to admit.
Hans had just grabbed another beer from the fridge when the doorbell rang. The bottle nearly slipped from his hand—he set it down hard on the table and hurried to the door. Maybe Adrik had come back. Maybe he was ready to talk, to explain everything, to tell Hans who he really was.
He yanked the door open.
And froze.
Dirk stood there—tall as ever, brown hair a little longer, hazel eyes catching the porch light in that familiar, irritating way. Five years gone without a word, and now he looked like he’d just stepped out for groceries.
Before Hans could speak, Dirk pushed past him and into the cottage.
Hans blinked, anger rising fast. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Dirk didn’t answer right away. He just stood there in the middle of Hans’ cluttered cottage, looking around like he was inspecting property he owned.
His gaze skimmed over the stacks of books, the half-empty coffee mugs, the jacket Hans had tossed over a chair.
Then he turned back with that same infuriating tilt of his chin—the one that said he expected the world to rearrange itself for him.
“Why the fuck are you dating a thug?” Dirk asked, voice smooth and cutting, like he was delivering a verdict. “You shouldn’t be with him, Hans. He has nothing to offer you. He’s a loser. He started the fight tonight.”
Hans didn’t bother hiding the exhaustion in his voice. “Get out.”
Dirk scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound. “I’m serious. Who the fuck is he? People are talking.” He said it like “people” meant something, like Hans should care about the whispers in Dirk’s perfect little social circle.
“Oh, please,” Hans muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You disappear for five years and suddenly you care who I’m seeing?”
Dirk stepped closer, lowering his voice as if he were about to share some grand truth. “I care about you.”
Hans barked out a humorless laugh. “You’re getting married, Dirk. To Bruno. Remember him? Our ‘friend’? The one you left me for?”
Dirk’s jaw tightened, a crack in the polished mask. “I don’t want to marry Bruno.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“I’d rather be with you,” Dirk said—and for a split second, his voice wavered. Just enough to hit Hans in the gut with memories he didn’t want. Nights on Dirk’s couch. Dirk’s hand in his hair. Dirk’s promises that turned out to be smoke.
Hans stepped back, shaking his head. “No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here and act like we’re picking up where we left off. You left. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You just vanished.”
Dirk’s hazel eyes softened, but it wasn’t warmth—it was calculation, the same look he used when he wanted something. “I made a mistake.”
“Yeah,” Hans whispered. “You did. And I’m not repeating it.”
Dirk stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face—annoyance maybe, or disbelief that Hans wasn’t folding the way he used to. Then he turned toward the door.
But before he stepped out, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a slow, confident smirk that made Hans’ skin crawl.
“This isn’t over, Hans.”
Then he walked out like he owned the ending too.
Hans shut the door the second Dirk stepped off the porch, leaning his forehead against the wood as the latch clicked.
His whole body felt tight, like someone had wound him too far and forgotten to let go.
Dirk’s cologne still lingered in the air—something expensive and sharp—and it made Hans’ stomach twist.
Five years. Five years of silence, and Dirk thought he could just walk in and declare they weren’t over. Like Hans had been waiting around, frozen in place, holding a candle for someone who had not even bothered to say goodbye.
“Unbelievable,” Hans muttered, pushing himself away from the door.
He grabbed the beer he’d abandoned and took a long drink, pacing the small living room. His hands were shaking—anger, nerves, leftover heartbreak—he couldn’t tell. Dirk always had that effect on him. Always knew how to rankle him.
But the worst part wasn’t Dirk.
It was the stupid flicker of hope he’d felt when the doorbell rang. The way his heart had jumped, thinking it was Adrik. Thinking maybe he’d come back to explain, to talk, to try.
Hans set the beer down and rubbed his eyes. “Idiot,” he whispered to himself.
He walked back to the window, half expecting Dirk to still be lurking outside. Instead, the street was empty.
And then he remembered earlier—Adrik standing right there on the sidewalk, smoking like he was trying to burn through his nerves.
Hans had watched him from behind the blinds, hidden like a coward.
He’d wanted to go out. God, he’d wanted to.
To grab Adrik’s jacket, pull him close, demand answers, offer comfort—he didn’t even know which urge was stronger.
But he couldn’t. Not after everything. Not when he didn’t even know who Adrik really was.
Hans sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone on the coffee table. The screen was dark, but it felt like it was staring back at him, daring him to pick it up.
He contemplated giving Adrik a call. Hearing his voice. Asking him to come over. Asking him to tell the truth.
Adrik might lie again. Or worse, tell the truth and confirm every fear Hans had.
His fingers twitched toward the phone, then curled into a fist.
“No,” he hissed. “Not tonight.”
He wasn’t strong enough to handle another heartbreak. Not after Dirk. Not after the confusion, the lies, the half-truths. Not when he didn’t know if Adrik was dangerous or just damaged.
Hans leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached in a stupid, familiar way—like something he wanted was just out of reach.
He wanted to call him.
He wanted to forget everything and just… be with him.
But he couldn’t. Not until he knew who Adrik really was. Not until he knew he wasn’t walking into another disaster.
So, he sat there in the dim light of his cottage, phone untouched, heart pulled in two directions, wishing the night would give him a sign.