Five years. Five years of silence, and Dirk thought he could just walk in and declare they weren’t over. Like Hanshad been waiting around, frozen in place, holding a candle for someone who had not even bothered to say goodbye.
“Unbelievable,” Hans muttered, pushing himself away from the door.
He grabbed the beer he’d abandoned and took a long drink, pacing the small living room. His hands were shaking—anger, nerves, leftover heartbreak—he couldn’t tell. Dirk always had that effect on him. Always knew how to rankle him.
But the worst part wasn’t Dirk.
It was the stupid flicker of hope he’d felt when the doorbell rang. The way his heart had jumped, thinking it was Adrik. Thinking maybe he’d come back to explain, to talk, to try.
Hans set the beer down and rubbed his eyes. “Idiot,” he whispered to himself.
He walked back to the window, half expecting Dirk to still be lurking outside. Instead, the street was empty.
And then he remembered earlier—Adrik standing right there on the sidewalk, smoking like he was trying to burn through his nerves. Hans had watched him from behind the blinds, hidden like a coward. He’d wanted to go out. God, he’d wanted to. To grab Adrik’s jacket, pull him close, demand answers, offer comfort—he didn’t even know which urge was stronger.
But he couldn’t. Not after everything. Not when he didn’t even know who Adrik really was.
Hans sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone on the coffee table. The screen was dark, but it felt like it was staring back at him, daring him to pick it up.
He contemplated giving Adrik a call. Hearing his voice. Asking him to come over. Asking him to tell the truth.
Adrik might lie again. Or worse, tell the truth and confirm every fear Hans had.
His fingers twitched toward the phone, then curled into a fist.
“No,” he hissed. “Not tonight.”
He wasn’t strong enough to handle another heartbreak. Not after Dirk. Not after the confusion, the lies, the half-truths. Not when he didn’t know if Adrik was dangerous or just damaged.
Hans leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached in a stupid, familiar way—like something he wanted was just out of reach.
He wanted to call him.
He wanted to forget everything and just… be with him.
But he couldn’t. Not until he knew who Adrik really was. Not until he knew he wasn’t walking into another disaster.
So, he sat there in the dim light of his cottage, phone untouched, heart pulled in two directions, wishing the night would give him a sign.
Chapter Eighteen
Adrik
The train rocked gentlybeneath Adrik as it cut through the gray morning toward the University of Rostock. He sat by the window, watching the winter-bare trees blur past, pretending he wasn’t scanning every station platform for a familiar wavy golden-brown head. He told himself he wasn’t hoping to see Hans. He absolutely was.
When the train slowed, Amelia Dirksen plopped into the seat beside him. She smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and carried enough notebooks to build a small fort.
“Morning, Adrik,” she chirped.
He nodded. “Morning.”
“Don’t you have a car?”
“Motorcycle.”
“Why are you taking the train then?”
“Waiting for the registration.”
