It shouldn’t hurt this much.
But it does.
He poured himself a drink, and the clinking of the ice cubes filled the room as he called Yakov.
“Did you pound on my door tonight?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m in Russia.”
“Some guy dressed in black pounded on my door for an hour. He didn’t speak English or German.”
“No, but I’ll check with your German security. Don’t leave the house until I find out what’s going on.”
“Thanks.” Adrik ended the call, but he had no intention of staying home alone.
Adrik shrugged into his jacket and stepped out of the cottage, the night air cold enough to bite at his cheeks. He lit a cigarette as he walked, the flame briefly lighting his fingers before the smoke curled up into the dark. His boots crunched over the cobblestones, the only sound in the dead stretch between his place and Hans’.
The Seebrise bar sat dark as he passed it, the neon sign dead for the night. Usually there’d be music leaking through the walls, laughter spilling out the door, something alive. Now it just looked tired, like it had given up hours ago. Kind of how he felt.
He kept walking, unsure if the trains were even running this late. Maybe he could ride to Rostock. Maybe he should. The thought drifted in and out, never landing, just circling like everything else in his head.
By the time he reached Hans’ cottage, his cigarette was a stub. He stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the windows. All the blinds were down. No light slipped through the cracks. Hans was probably writing. Adrik wanted to knock, to explain himself, to say “I’m not hiding because I don’t trust you.” But his hand wouldn’t lift. Something in him tightened, that old instinct whispering about danger, about keeping distance, about staying alive.
He hated that instinct. Hated that it still owned him.
He backed away and kept walking, drifting toward the train station without really deciding to. The Ferris wheel loomed over the square, its lights off, the metal frame ghostly in the dim streetlamps. He stopped beneath it, staring up as if it might give him an answer.
“Dedushka,” he muttered under his breath, feeling stupid and desperate all at once. “What am I supposed to do?”
The silence offered little. Just the wind pushing at his jacket and the faint hum of the empty tracks nearby.
Should he tell Hans the truth? Who he really was? Tell him about the violence he was involved in? He carried the past like a bruise under his skin. Hans might understand. Or he might run. Or worse, he might stay and look at Adrik differently with disappointment that cut deeper than anger.
Adrik shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down the tracks stretching into the dark. He didn’t know which direction to go—toward Hans, toward Rostock, or away from everything entirely. All he knew was he was tired of running, but terrified of stopping.
Chapter Seventeen
Hans
Hans left Adrik’s cottagewith 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.
