The wind from the sea went right through his shirt, yet he hardly noticed.
His mind was too full—of Hans’ laugh, his smile, the way he’d leaned in on the couch as if he belonged there.
He took a long drag from his cigarette, held it until his lungs burned, then exhaled slowly into the frosty night air. The smoke drifted upward, dissolving into the dark. He tried to steady himself, but his thoughts kept circling the same point.
He didn’t want to get attached.
He didn’t want to need anyone.
He’d spent years training himself not to.
But Hans… Hans made it too damn easy.
Adrik leaned against the porch railing, thumb brushing over the screen of his new phone. He typed slowly—still getting used to the German keyboard—and searched for a gay bar in Rostock. The first one that popped up looked lively, loud, full of neon and anonymity. Perfect.
Then he searched for a restaurant by the water. Something romantic. Something nice. Something resembling a date spot.
A date.
With a man.
In public.
His stomach flipped, excitement and nerves tangling together. He’d never done that before—not openly, not without fear. But tomorrow night, he would. With Hans.
He made the reservation before he could talk himself out of it.
When the cigarette burned down to the filter, he flicked it into the ashtray and stepped back inside. The cottage was warmer now, almost cozy, but he barely had time to take two steps before a sharp knock hit the door.
A shiver ran through him as if ice had just been poured down his spine.
He froze.
Another knock.
His pulse spiked. His father’s men? The neighbor who’d been watching him? Someone who’d followed him from New York? He didn’t know. He never knew anymore.
Adrik moved fast, silently. He slipped into his bedroom, opened the drawer beside the bed, and reached for the gun his grandfather had given him when he was fifteen.
It was an old Makarov PM; the metal worn smooth from decades of use. The grip was dark walnut, polished by generations of Marinov hands. His grandfather had called it a family heirloom, though the family history behind it was soaked in things Adrik tried not to remember. The weight was familiar—heavy, solid, comforting in a way that made him hate himself a little.
He loaded it with practiced ease, the click of the magazine sliding into place echoing in the room. His breath came shallow now, adrenaline sharpening everything.
He moved back toward the door, gun low but ready, every muscle tight.
Another knock.
His mind raced—faces, threats, possibilities.
If it’s them… if they’ve found me…
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe.
He approached the door slowly, muscles tense, breath held. Then he reached for the doorknob. He opened it, gun in hand.
Hans stood there. A small suitcase in his hand.
Adrik’s breath left him in a rush. Relief, surprise, something warm and sharp all at once.
