Chapter Thirty-Two
Hans
Warnemünde, Germany
Hans spent the whole day with his phone glued to his hand, calling Adrik over and over, each attempt ending in the same dead silence—no ring, no voicemail, nothing.
It made his stomach twist. He didn’t even know who he could call to check on him.
The tutor? His mother? No, he didn’t have their numbers, and he also didn’t have Adrik’s real surname.
That would be crossing a line Adrik hadn’t given him permission to cross, anyway.
So, Hans wandered the campus instead, drifting between buildings with no real destination, his steps uneven, like his body couldn’t decide where to take him.
The cold air stung his cheeks, but it didn’t clear his head the way he hoped.
His chest felt too tight, breath catching every few minutes as if his lungs were forgetting how to work.
He kept rubbing his palms against his jeans, trying to get rid of the restless tremor in his fingers.
Every time he checked his phone—every two minutes, maybe less—his stomach lurched. Why isn’t he answering? What if something happened? What if his father—no, don’t go there, don’t think that. The thoughts kept looping anyway, sharp and intrusive, refusing to be reasoned with.
He cut across the quad, then doubled back without realizing it, passing the same bench twice.
At one point he stopped near the fountain, pretending to admire the water even though he wasn’t seeing any of it.
He just needed to stand still before his knees gave out.
His mind kept replaying Adrik’s voice from the night before, the softness in it, the way he’d said I love you like it was the easiest truth in the world. And now—silence.
Hans pressed a hand to his sternum, trying to steady the thudding there.
He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.
He wasn’t out here for fresh air. He was out here because sitting still felt impossible, because if he stayed in his office he’d start imagining worst-case scenarios in high definition.
He walked again, faster this time, almost pacing the length of the campus paths. Anything to keep from thinking. Anything to keep from feeling like he was losing Adrik.
The motorcycle was supposed to be delivered later, and he needed to be home for that, but the thought barely registered. What good was a motorcycle if Adrik weren’t safe?
Two hours passed before he finally trudged back to his office. Amelia had finished all the folders and left them neatly stacked—thank God for her—but he barely had time to appreciate it before his phone rang. His heart jumped so hard it hurt. He didn’t even look at the screen. He just answered.
“Hans,” Adrik whispered.
Hans nearly sagged into his chair. “What happened? You okay?”
“Not really. My father is here.”
Hans’ pulse spiked. “Get out of there! I’ll get on the next flight. Come home.”
“He won’t hurt me. He came for my mother. He wants to take us back to New York.”
Hans pressed a hand to his forehead, dizzy with the urge to physically pull Adrik through the phone and lock him somewhere safe. “No, Adrik. Don’t go back. I need you.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Hans. I’m booking a flight tomorrow night. But it will take me over a day.”
“Send me your flight plans.”
“As soon as I make them, but I need to make sure I’m cleared to leave tomorrow night.”
Hans frowned. “What do you mean cleared? You need your father’s approval to return to Germany?”
“Family dynamics suck. I’m coming home as soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause, then Adrik’s voice softened. “You sound different, Hans. What’s wrong?”
Hans let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Shit went down. Nothing that can’t be fixed when I cuddle you.”
“I need you so much. Can you believe I’m in Siberia?”
Hans closed his eyes. “No, and I hate it. Don’t stay a minute longer than you need.”
“Trust me, I won’t.”
“I love you, Adrik. Stay safe.”
“I love you, Professor Hans.”
The call ended, leaving Hans staring at the dark screen as if it might bring him back.
He packed up slowly, feeling wrung out, and headed for the train.
He took the long route home on purpose, walking past Adrik’s cottage.
He stopped in front of it, hands shoved in his pockets, wishing the lights were on and Adrik was inside, maybe cooking something or teasing him about being dramatic. Instead, the place was dark and quiet.
When he finally reached his own cottage, Karl was standing out front beside the new motorcycle.
“Hey, I thought you’d never come home,” Karl said.
“Let’s bring it to the garage around the back,” Hans muttered.
Karl blinked. “Aren’t you excited about your new motorcycle?”
“No.”
They rolled it to the garage, the whole thing feeling surreal—like he was watching someone else’s life. Karl followed him inside.
“Want a beer?” Hans asked.
Karl nodded. “What’s up, Hans?”
“Nothing is going as planned.”
Karl smirked. “Where’s that stud?”
“Visiting his mother.”
“Is that why you’re down?”
“One reason,” Hans said, dropping onto the couch. “But today Rector Hoffmann told me my contract ends in December.”
Karl’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Karl hesitated. “Your father called me and said they were stopping by tonight.”
Hans stared at him. “Stopping by? They’re in Munich.”
“Well, they told me they wanted to talk to you. A very serious talk.”
Hans took a long drink of his beer, letting the cold hit his throat. Perfect. Just what he needed—his parents showing up on the one day everything else was falling apart. And why were they calling Karl and not him?
“Why don’t you stay the night, Karl?” he said.
“I will, but when they visit, I’ll go out.”
Hans nodded, grateful for even that tiny bit of normalcy Karl offered.
But once the door shut behind his cousin, the house felt wrong—too still, too neat, too hollow.
Without Adrik’s boots by the door or his jacket tossed over the back of a chair, the place felt like a stage set after the actors had gone home.
He already missed the way Adrik filled a room just by existing.
Three hours crawled by before the doorbell rang. Karl had slipped out earlier to meet friends at a bar, leaving Hans alone with his thoughts—mostly variations of please be safe, please come home, please don’t let your father drag you back to New York.
He opened the door to find his parents standing there, bundled in winter coats, both wearing an expression that meant “We’re here for a reason, and you will not like it.”
They stepped inside immediately, scanning the cottage.
“It’s spotless,” his mother said, sounding almost suspicious.
His father didn’t bother with small talk. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Hans shut the door and rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s visiting his mother. She’s in the hospital.”
“In Russia?” his mother asked, eyebrows lifting.
“Yes.”
His father made a noise—half scoff, half grunt. “I don’t like Adrik.”
Hans felt his jaw tighten. Of course. Here we go. “Why not?”
“He said his mother was in Russia and his father was there too. But the boy sounds like a New Yorker. Acts like one too. I don’t trust him. He’s going to take advantage of you.”
Hans exhaled slowly. “Adrik studied in New York like he said. So, he didn’t lie.”
Not about that, Hans added silently, wishing the complete name situation didn’t exist.
His father crossed his arms. “He looks like a thug, Hans. You can do better.”
His mother chimed in, “He looks a little… rough. Like a thug. Maybe he’s a Russian mobster. But his last name is German, so who knows.”
Hans pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not a mobster.”
“I searched his name,” his father said. “Adrik Brandt is nonexistent.”
Hans hated they weren’t entirely wrong about the name. But he wasn’t about to throw Adrik under the bus. “It’s not your decision who I see. I know enough about him to know I love him.”
His father glared at him as if he’d just announced he was moving to Mars. “Love him? You just met him.”
Hans didn’t bother arguing. They wouldn’t understand the way Adrik looked at him, or how he softened when he was tired, or how he clung to Hans like he was the only safe place left in the world.
They didn’t know how Hans felt walking past Adrik’s cottage earlier—the blue cottage with the red door, the tiny porch light, the curtains Adrik never remembered to close.
Hans had stood there imagining Adrik inside, barefoot, working out, humming off-key.
The cottage felt more like home than his own.
His mother cleared her throat. “We’re here to ask you to move back to San Diego.”
Hans rolled his eyes. “Move back? Why would I do that?”
His father stepped forward, voice firm. “Because you’re wasting your time here. Your contract could end at any minute. You have no job security. And this… situation with Adrik—”
A wave of nausea washed over Hans as his stomach turned upside down. Adrik. God. What would he think? Would he ask Hans to stay in Germany? Would he even be safe enough to have that conversation?
He swallowed hard. “I’m not moving anywhere.”
His parents exchanged a look—the kind that meant they weren’t done, not even close.
“I don’t remember getting a phone call your contract was renewed like you always do,” his father said.
“My contract is ending.”
And Hans suddenly wished more than anything that Adrik were here, sitting on the couch, giving him that quiet, grounding look that said I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.
“Then what are you doing here playing house with Adrik?”
“Not playing. I’ll find another position.”
“Why doesn’t Adrik work? Are you supporting him?” his father asked.
“He owns property and doesn’t need to work.”
“That sounds like a great fucking con job. Didn’t you suffer enough with that last boyfriend? You want to repeat that again?”
“Adrik is nothing like Dirk. How long do you plan to be here?”
“We’re leaving now, but think about coming home,” his mother said.
His parents hugged him, awkward and stiff, like they weren’t sure whether to comfort him or shake sense into him, then they finally left. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence that followed felt heavier than their entire visit.
Hans stood there for a moment, staring at the empty hallway.
The house felt colder now, as if their doubts had seeped into the walls.
He grabbed his drink and headed to his study, the one room that still felt like his.
The lamp cast a warm pool of light over his desk, over the half-finished manuscript waiting for him.
At least the novel made sense. Characters behaved the way he wrote them.
They didn’t show up unannounced to tell him his life was falling apart.
He sat down, opened the document, and tried to focus. If he finished it tonight, he could send it to his publisher before bed. Something productive. Something he could control.
But his mind kept drifting—to Adrik’s voice on the phone, thin and tired; to the dark cottage he’d passed earlier, the one that usually glowed with warm light and smelled faintly of Adrik; to the way his parents had said move back to California like it was a solution instead of a surrender.
He rubbed his face and stared at the blinking cursor.
What would Adrik say if he knew? Would he ask Hans to stay? Would he want him to?
A gust of wind rattled the window, and Hans glanced toward it, half expecting to see Adrik standing outside his cottage, a familiar silhouette stepping out. But the street was empty.
He took a slow breath, set his fingers on the keyboard, and forced himself to type. One sentence. Then another. The story pulled him in, steadied him, reminded him that he still had something to build here—something worth fighting for.
Still, as he worked, one thought kept circling back, quiet but relentless: When Adrik comes home… will this still be the life he wants to return to?
Hans didn’t know the answer. But he knew he wasn’t leaving.
Not tonight. Not for California. Not for anyone.
And as the cursor blinked on the screen, the house around him felt just a little less empty—like he was holding the place together until Adrik could walk through the door again.