Hans nodded, grateful for even that tiny bit of normalcy Karl offered. But once the door shut behind his cousin, the house felt wrong—too still, too neat, too hollow. Without Adrik’s boots by the door or his jacket tossed over the back of a chair, the place felt like a stage set after the actors had gone home. He already missed the way Adrik filled a room just by existing.
Three hours crawled by before the doorbell rang. Karl had slipped out earlier to meet friends at a bar, leaving Hans alone with his thoughts—mostly variations ofplease be safe, please come home, please don’t let your father drag you back to New York.
He opened the door to find his parents standing there, bundled in winter coats, both wearing an expression that meant “We’re here for a reason, and you will not like it.”
They stepped inside immediately, scanning the cottage.
“It’s spotless,” his mother said, sounding almost suspicious.
His father didn’t bother with small talk. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Hans shut the door and rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s visiting his mother. She’s in the hospital.”
“In Russia?” his mother asked, eyebrows lifting.
“Yes.”
His father made a noise—half scoff, half grunt. “I don’t like Adrik.”
Hans felt his jaw tighten. Of course. Here we go. “Why not?”
“He said his mother was in Russia and his father was there too. But the boy sounds like a New Yorker. Acts like one too. I don’t trust him. He’s going to take advantage of you.”
Hans exhaled slowly. “Adrik studied in New York like he said. So, he didn’t lie.”
Not about that, Hans added silently, wishing the complete name situation didn’t exist.
His father crossed his arms. “He looks like a thug, Hans. You can do better.”
His mother chimed in, “He looks a little… rough. Like a thug. Maybe he’s a Russian mobster. But his last name is German, so who knows.”
Hans pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not a mobster.”
“I searched his name,” his father said. “Adrik Brandt is nonexistent.”
Hans hated they weren’t entirely wrong about the name. But he wasn’t about to throw Adrik under the bus. “It’s not your decision who I see. I know enough about him to know I love him.”
His father glared at him as if he’d just announced he was moving to Mars. “Love him? You just met him.”
Hans didn’t bother arguing. They wouldn’t understand the way Adrik looked at him, or how he softened when he was tired, or how he clung to Hans like he was the only safe place left in the world. They didn’t know how Hans felt walking past Adrik’s cottage earlier—the blue cottage with the red door, the tiny porch light, the curtains Adrik never remembered to close. Hans had stood there imagining Adrik inside, barefoot, working out, humming off-key. The cottage felt more like home than his own.
His mother cleared her throat. “We’re here to ask you to move back to San Diego.”
Hans rolled his eyes. “Move back? Why would I do that?”
His father stepped forward, voice firm. “Because you’re wasting your time here. Your contract could end at any minute. You have no job security. And this… situation with Adrik—”
A wave of nausea washed over Hans as his stomach turned upside down. Adrik. God. What would he think? Would he ask Hans to stay in Germany? Would he even be safe enough to have that conversation?
He swallowed hard. “I’m not moving anywhere.”
His parents exchanged a look—the kind that meant they weren’t done, not even close.
“I don’t remember getting a phone call your contract was renewed like you always do,” his father said.
“My contract is ending.”
And Hans suddenly wished more than anything that Adrik were here, sitting on the couch, giving him that quiet, grounding look that saidI’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.
