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.
