For the first time since Adrik sat down, Hans’ mouth twitched into a small, reluctant smile. “Alright. Show me.”
Adrik snorted. “Not here. I’ll show you at my cottage.”
Hans’ smile vanished. “No.”
Adrik leaned back, confused. “Why not?”
Hans shot Adrik a death glare. “Fuck you.”
He stood up so fast his stool scraped across the floor, then stormed out of the bar.
Adrik watched him go, heart thudding, the echo of those two words lingering like smoke.
Great, he thought. Exactly what I wanted and somehow not at all what I wanted.
He stared at the door Hans had disappeared through. And there it was—that sharp, stupid twist in his chest. He shouldn’t like Hans being angry. He shouldn’t feel warmed byit. But he did. God help him, he did. The anger meant Hans still felt something. Still wanted something. And Adrik didn’t know whether to be thrilled or frightened by how much that mattered to him.
Adrik tossed a few bills onto the bar before Hershel could protest. Paying for both drinks felt like the least he could do after Hans stormed out like that.
He pushed out into the frosty night and spotted Hans already halfway down the street, coat pulled tight, walking fast like he was trying to outrun his own emotions. Adrik jogged to catch up, boots thudding against the pavement.
“Hans,” he shouted, breath puffing in the air. “I want to talk.”
Hans didn’t slow his walking. “About what?”
Adrik moved in front of him, forcing him to stop. “Anything you want to know about me,” he said, hands shoved into his pockets so Hans wouldn’t see them shaking. “As long as it stays between us.”
Hans’ eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp enough to cut. “Are you serious, or is this another con?”
That stung, even if he deserved it. “Please,” Adrik said. “Come to my cottage and we’ll talk.”
Hans stared at Adrik for a long moment, jaw tight, breath visible in the cold. The gears were practically visible turning in his head… the doubt, the anger, the part of him that still cared.
“Okay,” Hans said at last. “But I don’t guarantee I’ll stay.”
“Fair enough.”
They turned around and headed toward Adrik’s cottage. Their footsteps echoed on the empty street, the silence between them thick and heavy. Hans kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. Adrik walked beside him, trying not to overthink every second.
He knew what he would open up, really open up, and it could blow everything apart. Hans could walk out and never look back. But if Adrik wanted even a chance at something real, he had to stop hiding.
He had to trust Hans. And he had to hope Hans wouldn’t walk away once he heard the truth.
Adrik hung his jacket on the hook by the door, hands unsteady in a way he hoped Hans didn’t notice. Hans did the same, but slower, more guarded, like he wasn’t sure he should even be here.
The living room was warm and quiet—the kind of quiet where even the soft sigh of the leather couch seemed loud. A faint scent of smoke drifted in from the porch, settling between them. Every small sound of the distant wind only made the unsaid things louder.
“Do you want a beer?” Adrik asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Hans nodded and sat at the far end of the couch, not in the middle, and not close like before. That small distance hit harder than it should have. Adrik grabbed two beers from the mini-fridge behind the bar and handed Hans a bottle before sitting halfway between Hans and the opposite armrest. Close enough to talk. Far enough so that Hans wouldn’t feel cornered.
“I’m serious, Hans,” Adrik said. “I want you in my life. Ask me anything.”
Hans took a slow sip, staring at the label on his bottle like it held the answers. Then, he finally looked at Adrik. “Tell me why you moved here.”
Adrik rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh… I got into it with my father. Badly. Words you can’t take back, threats you don’t forget—that kind of bad.”
Hans frowned. “And that meant moving to Germany? Not, I don’t know, Ohio?”
