But me? Nothing. Silence. Vanishing acts.
My aide gets to hold your hand while you get metal shoved through your chest? Really? That’s where we are now?
Adrik leaning there in his mind—arms crossed, that infuriating calm, like none of this touched him. Like he is the only one burning.
You said you were into me.
You said you wanted me.
And now you’re out there smiling at my students, letting Amelia see things I haven’t even—The thought cuts off, sharp and ugly.
Hans stopped pacing. Hands shaking. Chest tight.
He doesn’t say the rest out loud.
He doesn’t have to. It’s already tearing through him.
He cut himself off, heat rising in his face.
He snatched a notebook and tossed it onto the couch. It bounced off the cushion and hit the floor.Good. Let the whole office look as chaotic as I feel.
Hans braced his hands on the edge of his desk, breathing hard.
He wasn’t just jealous.
Because Adrik wasn’t his.
But damn it, Hans wished he were.
On the train, Hans stared out the window as the city blurred past. He kept replaying Amelia’s words, each one poking at him like a bruise.
Adrik had told him he was bisexual. Hans had believed him. But now? Now Adrik was spending the afternoon with Amelia, letting her see things Hans hadn’t. Laughing with her. Walking with her. Trusting her.
Had he forgotten Hans that quickly?
Hans pressed his lips together, annoyed at himself for caring this much. He’d thought Adrik was into him. He’d felt it—in the way Adrik looked at him, the way he kissed him, the way he said his name.
But maybe he’d imagined all of it.
He walked home from the station, taking the long route that passed Adrik’s cottage. He told himself it was a coincidence. It wasn’t.
When he reached the cottage, he slowed. The blinds were open. Adrik wasn’t near them, but the lights were on. Hans stood there for a moment, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
He wanted to knock. God, he wanted to knock.
But what would he even say?Hi, I’m jealous and confused and apparently incapable of moving on?
No, unless he was ready to be honest—really honest—knocking would only make things worse.
He forced himself to keep walking.
He stepped inside, and the usual mess of his cottage was amplified by the musty air. Maybe it was the contrast with Adrik’s neatness. Maybe it was the chaos in his head. Either way, he pulled his phone from his pocket and finally did what Adrik had told him to do.
He hired a cleaning service for tomorrow.
“It’s time,” he muttered to himself.
He went to his study—that cluttered room with a sagging bookshelf, a desk buried under drafts of his novel, and a lamp that flickered whenever he breathed near it. He opened his laptop and tried to write. His mobster protagonist was currently suffering, and Hans poured every ounce of frustration into the scene.
