“He lives in Rostock,” Hans said.
Karl gave Adrik a look that was half challenge, half threat. “I need to go. Talk to you another time.” Then he left.
Adrik shut the door harder than necessary. “Is he really your cousin?”
Hans nodded. “He helped get the paperwork for my new motorcycle.”
“I don’t like him,” Adrik muttered.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Apart from the way he interrupted our night.”And he looked at you like he knew something he shouldn’t. And he looked at me as if he wanted to fight.
“Were you really bothered by Karl?”
“Yeah,” Adrik admitted. “I didn’t like him just showing up. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Or me.” He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I get jealous sometimes. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Hans whispered. “I get jealous too.”
Adrik lifted an eyebrow. “Over Amelia?”
Hans flushed, confirming it.
Adrik exhaled. “See? Same problem. I didn’t answer her. I didn’t want to. I want you.
Hans sighed softly. “Let’s eat something.”
Adrik followed him to the kitchen, still simmering. But the moment he stepped inside, he blinked. “Damn. Even thekitchen is perfect.” It differed completely from the disaster that was etched in his memory.
Hans said, “Thanks for the suggestion.” He moved around the kitchen with a calm, domestic ease.
Adrik leaned against the counter like he owned the place, arms folded, pretending he wasn’t watching Hans’ every move. But he was. He always did. Hans in a kitchen was its own kind of show—focused, and almost too careful.
Hans opened the breadbox and pulled out a fresh loaf, the good dense German kind that could probably break a window if thrown hard enough. He sliced it with slow, even strokes. Adrik smirked.He cuts bread as if he’s performing surgery.
The cottage smelled warm—bread, mustard, a hint of onion. Hans had already laid everything out: cold cuts, cheese, pickles, butter, mustard.
“You don’t have to make mine,” Adrik said, mostly out of habit.
Hans didn’t even look up. “I know.”
That answer made something stupidly warm settle in Adrik’s chest.
Hans spread mustard on the slices, thick and smooth, then added ham and cheese with a neat, deliberate touch. Adrik would have slapped everything together and called it a day. Hans layered it like he was building a tiny architectural model.
“You’re really committed to this sandwich,” Adrik said.
Hans laughed. “You get grumpier when you’re hungry.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re always grumpy.”
Adrik stepped closer, bumping Hans’ hip with his own. “I’m charming.”
Hans finally looked at him, eyes soft, amused. “Sure.”
He added pickles to Adrik’s sandwich—extra, because he knew Adrik liked the crunch from watching him eat—andpressed the bread together. Then he handed it over as if it were something important, not just dinner.
