Chapter Nineteen
Hans
Hans wrapped up his last class of the day and retreated to his office, the small, slightly cramped room tucked at the end of the language department hallway.
The place always smelled faintly of old books and stale coffee.
Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with German novels, English grammar texts, and stacks of student essays he kept meaning to grade.
His desk was a battlefield of sticky notes, coffee mugs, and half-organized lesson plans.
Amelia sat across from him, perched on the edge of the visitor chair, flipping through a stack of translation exercises. She was efficient, bright, and far too observant of his comfort sometimes.
Hans leaned back in his chair. “Did you really take Adrik to get his nipples pierced?”
Amelia didn’t even blink. “Yes. They look so sexy on him.”
Hans’ fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “Really? He let you see them?”
She gave him a look as if he’d asked whether water was wet. “Of course. I was with him when he got them pierced.”
Hans swallowed, forcing a tight smile. “Right. Well… thank you for helping the students with their translations today.”
“Anytime, Hans,” she said, gathering her things before heading out.
After Amelia left, the office fell quiet in a heavy, suffocating way Hans hated. Too still. Too full of his own thoughts. And every single one of them was about Adrik.
He paced behind his desk, jaw tight, replaying her words. “They look so sexy on him.”
Sexy. On him.
She said it like it was no big deal, while he was left trying to pretend it didn’t punch a hole straight through his mood.
Hans lifted the nearest stack of books and slammed them onto the desk.
One slid off and hit the floor with a loud thud.
He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he picked up the digital clock on his desk and tossed it onto the chair.
Then he threw all his pens everywhere. The sound echoed off the walls, sharp and satisfying.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
Adrik—quiet, intense, guarded Adrik—had gone and gotten his nipples pierced. With Amelia. Amelia, who was supposed to be helping him, not escorting the man he was trying very hard not to think about to a piercing shop.
Pacing. Hair shoved back. Breath too tight.
Adrik in the doorway—that’s all it would take. One look. One second. And the words would rip out of him.
Oh, sure. Show her everything.
But me? Nothing. Silence. Vanishing acts.
My aide gets to hold your hand while you get metal shoved through your chest? Really? That’s where we are now?
Adrik leaning there in his mind—arms crossed, that infuriating calm, like none of this touched him. Like he is the only one burning.
You said you were into me.
You said you wanted me.
And now you’re out there smiling at my students, letting Amelia see things I haven’t even—The thought cuts off, sharp and ugly.
Hans stopped pacing. Hands shaking. Chest tight.
He doesn’t say the rest out loud.
He doesn’t have to. It’s already tearing through him.
He cut himself off, heat rising in his face.
He snatched a notebook and tossed it onto the couch. It bounced off the cushion and hit the floor. Good. Let the whole office look as chaotic as I feel.
Hans braced his hands on the edge of his desk, breathing hard.
He wasn’t just jealous.
Because Adrik wasn’t his.
But damn it, Hans wished he were.
On the train, Hans stared out the window as the city blurred past. He kept replaying Amelia’s words, each one poking at him like a bruise.
Adrik had told him he was bisexual. Hans had believed him. But now? Now Adrik was spending the afternoon with Amelia, letting her see things Hans hadn’t. Laughing with her. Walking with her. Trusting her.
Had he forgotten Hans that quickly?
Hans pressed his lips together, annoyed at himself for caring this much. He’d thought Adrik was into him. He’d felt it—in the way Adrik looked at him, the way he kissed him, the way he said his name.
But maybe he’d imagined all of it.
He walked home from the station, taking the long route that passed Adrik’s cottage. He told himself it was a coincidence. It wasn’t.
When he reached the cottage, he slowed. The blinds were open. Adrik wasn’t near them, but the lights were on. Hans stood there for a moment, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
He wanted to knock. God, he wanted to knock.
But what would he even say? Hi, I’m jealous and confused and apparently incapable of moving on?
No, unless he was ready to be honest—really honest—knocking would only make things worse.
He forced himself to keep walking.
He stepped inside, and the usual mess of his cottage was amplified by the musty air. Maybe it was the contrast with Adrik’s neatness. Maybe it was the chaos in his head. Either way, he pulled his phone from his pocket and finally did what Adrik had told him to do.
He hired a cleaning service for tomorrow.
“It’s time,” he muttered to himself.
He went to his study—that cluttered room with a sagging bookshelf, a desk buried under drafts of his novel, and a lamp that flickered whenever he breathed near it.
He opened his laptop and tried to write.
His mobster protagonist was currently suffering, and Hans poured every ounce of frustration into the scene.
After dinner, he seized his coat and walked to the Seebrise, hoping Adrik might be there.
He wasn’t.
The bartender Herschel shook his head. “Haven’t seen him tonight.”
Hans’ disappointment settled low and heavy in his stomach.
A man sitting a few stools down—someone Hans recognized as Adrik’s neighbor—turned toward him.
“I heard you asking about him,” the neighbor said. “Another guy dressed in black pounded on his door this morning.”
Hans straightened. “Did the guy say anything?”
“No. I didn’t go near him. He looked dangerous.”
Hans’ pulse kicked up. Dangerous. Another man. At Adrik’s door.
He stared into his drink, unease curling through him.
Whatever was going on with Adrik… it wasn’t simple.
And Hans wasn’t sure if he should stay away or run straight toward him.
Hans had been sitting at the bar for almost an hour, talking with Hershel about nothing in particular. He was halfway through his drink when the door opened, letting in a rush of cold air.
And then Adrik walked in.
Hans’ breath caught before he could stop it.
Adrik looked nothing like the dangerous, sharp-edged man Hans had first met.
Tonight he looked… young. Confident. Effortlessly magnetic.
He threw his black leather jacket over his shoulder.
He wore tight blue jeans that fit him unfairly well, a navy University of Rostock T-shirt stretched across his chest, and leather bracelets around his wrists.
His smartwatch was gone. His hair was styled casually, so it looked like he hadn’t tried at all—which meant he had.
He stopped at the little counter by the door, grabbed a black wristband from the jar, and then strutted—actually strutted—across the bar like he owned the place. He ordered a beer, then leaned against the far wall, one boot crossed over the other, sipping like he had all the time in the world.
Hans stared.
Adrik didn’t smile at him. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even pretend to acknowledge him. Just acted like Hans wasn’t even there.
That hurt more than Hans wanted to admit.
A few minutes later, a young guy dressed head-to-toe in black wandered over to Adrik. Tattoos, piercings, boots… He said something Hans couldn’t hear, and Adrik smiled at him. Actually smiled. Warm. Easy. Interested.
A wave of jealousy spiked so hard it made Hans’ stomach twist.
Now and then, Adrik glanced over at him—quick, sharp looks that made Hans’ pulse jump—but then he’d turn back to the tattooed guy like nothing mattered.
Hans gripped his glass tighter. What the hell is going on? Who is that guy? Why is Adrik smiling at him like that?
Then, when Hans thought he couldn’t take another second of watching it, Adrik and the young man left together.
Hans ordered another drink, trying to swallow the jealousy burning in his throat.
Hershel wiped down the counter and gave him a sympathetic look. “Did you two have a falling out?”
Hans nodded, staring into his glass. “Something like that.” He didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t. An icy fist squeezed his lungs, making each breath a struggle.
Five minutes later, when Hans had convinced himself Adrik was gone for the night, the door opened again.
Adrik walked back in.
Alone.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t look flustered. He took his time crossing the bar, like he’d planned this.
Hans watched Adrik move through the bar like he owned every pair of eyes in the place, and it hit him with irritating clarity: the man knew exactly what he was doing to him.
Every slow step, every glance, every deliberate choice not to look his way—it all felt intentional.
Like Adrik was pulling a string just to see how hard Hans would flinch.
And damn it, Hans was flinching.
He could feel it in the tightness in his chest, in the heat crawling up his neck, in the way his pulse jumped every time Adrik shifted his weight against the wall.
Adrik didn’t have to say a word. He didn’t have to smile or wave or acknowledge him at all.
Just existing like that—confident, gorgeous, impossible to ignore—was enough to twist Hans up inside.
Hans knew the truth, even if he hated admitting it.
Adrik was doing this on purpose.
And it was working.
Then he slid onto the stool right beside him.
Close enough that Hans could smell the cold air on his clothes.
Adrik lifted a hand to Hershel. “Another beer,” he said in English, voice low and steady.
Hans’ heart hammered, his jealousy still simmering, his hurt still raw.
And now Adrik was sitting right next to him.
Like nothing at all had happened.