I throw myself back on the bed with a groan, arm over my eyes. “Christ.”
Ronan laughs. “What you miserable for then? She’s alive, right? It’s only a couple months. Not the end of the world.”
I let out a breath, staring at the ceiling. “She told meshe loves mebefore I left. I fucked it up. I froze.”
There’s a low whistle. “Well, now that...” He pushes off the bed like he’s backing away from an open flame. “I’m not standing near that kind of mess. It might rub off on me, and I’m still working my magic on Freja. Don’t need your dumbass vibes screwing with my luck.”
“Appreciate the empathy,” I mutter, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him.
He catches it, laughs, and throws it right back. “So you’re just gonna hide in here, not eat, to what,punish yourself?”
“Maybe.”
He grabs my ankles and drags me halfway off the bed. “Nah. You’re coming. Shawarma and garlic sauce cure heartbreak. Or at least give you something else to hate yourself for tomorrow.”
I can’t help a faint laugh. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“I know.” He points toward the door. “Up. Shoes. Come on, Romeo.”
I let him pull me to my feet. Part of me still wants to crawl back under the covers, but the rest knows he’s right. Food, noise. Something normal. Maybe it’ll stop the echo of her voice for a few hours.
As we step into the hallway, he slaps my back and mutters, “Atta boy. We’ll fix your disaster after kebab.”
For the first time since leaving her, I almost manage a real smile.
The shawarma stand is exactly how we left it: lights flickering, grill smoke curling through the air, the old owner grinning the second he sees us. “Meine Jungs!” he shouts, pulling everyone into hugs, kissing cheeks, slapping shoulders. We eat until we can’t move, meat dripping down paper wrappers, laughter spilling into the cold street. For an hour it feels normal. No cameras, no schedules. Just grease, garlic, and my friends.
Then Ronan calls it. “Drinks, come on. Don’t give me that look, Rafe, you’re not getting out of this.”
I groan but follow. He’s right, the night’s not done. We end up at one of the best clubs in Berlin, a place we’ve been coming to for years. The owner spots us immediately, shouting greetings, ushering us upstairs to the VIP section with the kind of grin only large past bar tabs can buy. Rithy throws an arm around me as we slide into our booth, and it almost feels good. I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen before typing:
wish you were here.so much to show you in berlin.
still an obscene poet just with less frosting this trip.
let me know you got in ok.
I stare at the blinking cursor for too long, fighting the instinct to addI love you. It makes my stomach twist, I can't say it like that, not for the first time. If I’d just said it back, maybe it would’ve been simple. Maybe it’d already belong to us. But now it’s fragile. So I send it as is, shove the phone back in my pocket, and signal for another round.
The table fills fast, Kiri’s already flanked by two women, both laughing loudly, glued to him. Ronan’s perched on a stool overlooking the room, whiskey neat in hand, probably texting the drummer from Råvind, speaking in syncopation and paradiddles. Rithy drops down next to me, flashing that wicked grin.
“So,” he says. “How was your little break?”
I know a fishing expedition when I hear one. I keep it vague. “Quiet.”
He narrows his eyes, not buying it, then glances toward the stairs. “Ah, there they are!”
A woman in a silver dress appears,dressmight be generous, it looks like molten metal poured straight onto her skin. Rithy catches me glancing and smirks. “Back at it then, Rafe?”
“Hardly.”
He doesn’t believe me. In seconds, he’s across the room, cheek-kissing her and guiding her right back to our couch. “Keep this dark andbroody one entertained,” he says, planting her beside me. “I’ll be right back.”
I sigh, forcing a polite smile, order another round, now for three. She’s nice enough, talks about Milan, Paris, London, all the usual modeling stops. I nod in the right places, suppress a yawn.
Rithy returns with another model in tow, handsome, sharp suit, perfect hair. Very Rith's style of poison. They all collapse onto the couch, Rithy between us, buzzing like he’s running on pure nightlife.
He demands a photo. Before I can say no, he’s got his phone up, shouting, “Come on, everyone squeeze in!”
