"Flickers of Yellow, Mental Battles, and the Fuck-It Pull to Dive Headfirst Into Every Single Twisted Bit of This Mess"

I wake to pale morning light spilling through the thin hotel curtains, soft and hazy.
For a second, I don't move. I'm warm, too warm, and it takes me a beat to realize why.

His arm is still around me.

August's breathing deep and even, mouth slightly parted, hair a mess against the pillow. My cheek is pressed against skin—bare, warm, the steady thump of his heartbeat right beneath me. Sometime during the night he must've pulled off his hoodie, and now it's just his chest beneath me, smooth and solid and impossibly human.

My brain catches up slowly, and then all at once. We're not supposed to be doing this.
Friends. That's the agreement. Friends don't fall asleep tangled up like this. Friends don't wake up with their noses pressed to someone's shoulder, memorizing the faint smell of cologne and sleep and him.

Panic prickles at the edges of the warmth. I start to shift away, carefully, so carefully, like defusing a bomb. His arm twitches but doesn't tighten. He stays asleep.

My bare feet find the floor, cold enough to jolt me fully awake. I straighten slowly, watching him as if moving too fast might wake him. He looks... peaceful. Not the August who negotiates, who deflects with impossible flirts, who ties himself in knots to do the right thing. Just August, soft in the morning light, lashes dark against his skin.

And for a second, my chest aches so hard I almost sit back down. I want this. I want this so badly it hurts. But wanting doesn't change anything. It doesn't make it safe. Doesn't make it fair.

I grab my phone, keycard, fingers fumbling like I'm trying to erase every trace of how good last night felt. The screen on the TV is black now, the remote abandoned on the nightstand. My slippers are exactly where I kicked them off. It's like nothing happened—except I know better. I can still feel the imprint of his arm around me.

The floor creaks when I take a step toward the door. I freeze, watching him for any sign he's waking, any sign I'll have to explain why my heart feels like it's been wrung out and hung up to dry.

But he just shifts, sighs softly in his sleep, and stays under.

I open the door as quietly as I can, slip out into the hallway, and pull it closed behind me.
The latch clicks.

And just like that, I'm back in my own skin, in my own mess, carrying the secret weight of how it felt to belong somewhere—even for one night.

***

I'm leaning against the doorframe to Nick's room, hands on my hips, trying to look more confident than I feel.

"Come on, Nick. The museum's open, and honestly, you need to get out of bed."

He'd opened the door for me, then immediately crawled back under the covers. His voice comes out muffled, stubborn.
"I'm fine here. You go. Enjoy your sunflowers or whatever."

I roll my eyes, half‑laughing despite myself. "You're not fine. You look like a zombie who lost a fight with last night. You need air."

A soft knock interrupts us. I glance over my shoulder. August is leaning in the doorway, casual, like he just wandered in looking for coffee.

"You guys ready to head out?"

He's invited. Over FaceTime, we fucking planned this, and my brain's capacity's yet to come up with any excuse whatsoever.

Nick peeks out, eyes still half‑closed. "Yeah, if I can ever get out of bed."

August smirks. "Two choices, I jump in under the covers with you - kick you till you fall out, or.. you can just get your ass moving"

I glance at him—and instantly gulp, because in a split second I'm back under his covers, curled into his chest, his steady breathing against my hair. It flashes through me like a shock, and I have to blink it away, forcing myself into something like normal.
"Right," I manage.

August just nods, confidently knowing Nick will come, he already has his jacket in hand, like it's the most ordinary thing in the world.

Behind me, Nick groans but finally throws back the covers with a dramatic sigh.

"We're doing this," I say, throwing on my jacket before I can overthink my way out of it.

And then we're heading out, into the daylight—three people in a strange truce, bound for sunflowers, quiet halls, and maybe a little piece of normal I didn't know I needed.

The museum hums with a low, reverent quiet.
Light spills through wide skylights, bouncing off polished floors. Every painting is entombed in glass—too pristine, too clinical—like they've captured something wild and pinned it down under a microscope.

I've always hated that. Art is supposed to breathe. It feels wrong seeing brushstrokes trapped behind reflections of strangers passing by.

Nick lasts all of five minutes. He mutters something about "Each colour spearing his skull," then drifts off toward the café, leaving August and me in a hushed corridor lined with gold frames.

We walk in step, not too close, not too far. I keep trying to figure out the right distance, an arm, a metre, it's like I forgot how to walk altogether.

I can sense how hard he's trying to be neutral—no teasing, no lingering touches—just careful, polite comments on the paintings.
I'm trying too, but the memory of his heartbeat under my cheek last night keeps crawling in, uninvited.

I don't love Van Gogh. Fangirl over him. But I do love his.. blur—before the South of France, before the fever of yellow. How he painted farmers and fields as if they were sacred. As if their labor held the whole sky together.

We move mostly in silence, pulling each other toward dark canvases of bent backs and soil‑stained hands. I feel a sense of pride by seeing their work being glorified. In some of them, I imagine my dad, among them. How he and his work ethic belongs up on their pedestal.

Then we reach a room flooded in color, and there it is: a canvas bursting with yellow—sunflowers, petals curling, impossibly alive.

"They put him behind glass," I murmur. "Like they're afraid he'll... escape."

August's eyes flick to mine. "Glass is safe," he says softly. "For them, I mean. Not for him."

There's a faint tension in his voice. Not dramatic—but tight, like it's holding something in. It unsettles me, not because it's cold, but because it's familiar. Like something I've heard in my own head.

I hesitate. My heart picks up.
If I ask this, I can't undo it.
But I want to know. Need to.

"Do you think he was bipolar?"

August shakes his head—not dismissive, but certain. "Doesn't matter."

I blink. "Doesn't matter?"

"He was religious first," he says, voice low. "Exhausted second. That combination has ended more lives than any diagnosis ever did."

There's no trace of judgment. Just fact. Calm, honest fact. The kind that feels like truth because he's lived close enough to it.

I didn't realize I was bracing for rejection until I feel my body start to relax.
He doesn't see me differently.
He sees me.

"How so?" I ask.

"Bipolar's a condition. Something you treat. But him?" August's gaze sharpens on the painting. "He was a fanatic. Taught that suffering meant virtue. That silence was strength. That you should die alone if that's what God asked of you."

He glances at the glass again. "That's not strength. It's just abandonment. He didn't reach out. And no one reached in."

Something in my chest shifts—like he's saying something more, about someone else entirely. I don't want to pry, ask him, but I want to now, a particular sting within me that needs to know.

I swallow. "And the ear?"

"He'd just fought with Matisse. His closest friend. Aside from his pen-pal of a brother, maybe the only one who got him." August exhales. "He was probably drunk. He painted over 70 works in a month, Frederika. That's not art—it's frenzy. His mind must've been racing. You don't lose part of your body like that unless something's boiling inside you."

He pauses. "People act like that was the breaking point. But to me, it sounds like a failed SOS. The kind you send out when you don't know how to say 'help.'"

I can't breathe.
He says it so plainly—no pity, no performance.
Just truth.

The sunlight shifts, catching flecks of yellow in the glass, and I look at him—really look—and think I've never seen anyone more heartbreakingly beautiful.

He doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. He just walks on toward the next painting, like he didn't just knock the wind out of me.

And I follow, limbs moving before my thoughts can catch up.
Because if I stop here, if I really let myself feel it—I don't know what I'll do.

So I drift, let us drift deeper into the museum, the hush around us making every sound feel amplified—the muted shuffle of shoes, distant murmurs, August's voice when he leans in close to read a plaque.

He pauses before a small, shadowed painting, head tilted.
"He layered the darks first," he murmurs, "like he was hiding something under the light."

I look up at him—broad shoulders framed in soft light, the thoughtful crease between his brows. A moment passes, and he glances at me, puzzled by my silence. I don't even catch myself biting my lip as I trace the shape of his lips with my eyes.

Only then do I realize he's watching me. His gaze flicks from my eyes, then down—catching the press of my teeth against my lip.

I should look away. Instead, I hold his gaze.

There's a flicker there—surprise, maybe curiosity—but before I can read more, he turns back to the painting. I tell myself to focus, to snap out of it.

We move on, drifting silently, keeping a safe distance. I trail behind him, eyes locked on his figure, his shoulders, every stray strand of hair catching the light. The flickers of yellow seem to trail him just like me.

He glances back at me a few times. Every time, I catch that growing confusion in his eyes—as if he's trying to understand why mine seem fixed on him exactly at that moment.

I catch myself feeling a little too invested, and try to pull away—pretending to study brushstrokes, like I was paid to. But without trying, my eyes keep finding him.

He lingers in front of a particular piece longer than I expect. I could wait for him to move on, hang back to get a better look.

But I don't.

Instead, I slide both hands lightly around his waist to guide him aside, stepping in front of him. His body goes still beneath my touch—solid, warm—and I feel him inhale sharply before his hands come up to rest gently on my shoulders, guiding me forward.

"Excuse me," I murmur, soft and almost playful.

His arms linger just a second too long. I can feel the quickening beat of his heart behind me.

It would be so easy... just to lean back, pull him closer, let his arms wrap around me.

And then, he's gone.

It feels like a silent wake up call. I take a breath, forcing myself to step back from the edge of whatever this is. Keep it together, I tell myself. His face lit by flickers of yellow or not, he's not for me.

I focus on the next few rooms like a soldier on a mission—studying colors, brushstrokes, even reading the plaques with more interest than I've shown all day. My heartbeat slows a bit. The pull towards him steadies.

I'm doing it. I'm holding the line.

But my mind keeps replaying his words - the unapologetic, firm defense of mental health - sneaks up on me, uninvited and impossible to ignore. Somehow, my heart seems like it's going to burst. I look over, just to try and see him for the very human he is. Not some superhero character living in my head.

I force myself to look, and just as I'm trying to pull my eyes back, he turns from a painting across the room.

Our eyes meet.

Without thinking, I just feel a smile forming - a reaction more than any smile I've ever deliberately sent out into the world.

He smiles back—soft, a little surprised, almost embarrassed. It's not a grin, not quite shy, just... real.

He crosses the room slowly, like he's deciding if this is okay, if it's allowed. When he reaches me, I catch the faintest blush dusting his cheeks—barely there, but it's enough to make my heart skip.

"Hey," he says quietly, voice low, like we're sharing a secret.

I meet his gaze, feeling the room shrink until it's just the two of us.

"Hey," I whisper back.

"I hope you don't smile like that at all your friends," he says, teasing lightly but with a warmth that makes my pulse race.

I blink, caught off guard—I didn't even realize I was still smiling. It just slipped out, pulled by something I can't quite name. I try to pull myself together, but my eyes stay locked on his.

He studies me for a moment, as if trying to read the sudden shift between us. Then, quieter, he asks, "What are you smiling at me for?"

I don't answer. Instead, I just keep looking, caught in the moment, unsure if I want to break the spell.

He shifts slightly, like he's waiting for me to say something, but the words stick somewhere behind my ribs. Instead, I let the silence stretch, thick and electric between us.

Finally, he laughs softly—a sound like a secret, gentle and a little nervous. "You're messing with me, right? Testing the friend rules?"

I want to deny it, say it's just the art or the day, but my smile only grows wider. "Maybe."

His eyes narrow, and he steps closer, closing the space between us like a warning and a plea all at once. His voice drops, low and heavy.

"That smile..." he breathes out, like it's a confession and a curse. "It told me things I shouldn't know. Things I shouldn't hear—from a friend. Things I'm not supposed to be thinking about."

His gaze pins me, raw and unguarded. "Now it's burned into my mind forever."

I can feel the weight of it—the way those words scrape against the fragile boundaries we built. His breath is steady but tense, like he's fighting something inside.

He takes my hand, guiding me gently down the quiet halls, the weight of his words hanging between us like a fragile thread.

Before I know it, we round a corner, and there's Nick, lounging at a small café table, looking exactly how you'd expect a guy to look after a brutal hangover — tousled hair, squinting against the afternoon light, and holding a giant mug like it's his lifeline.

"Look who decided to join the living," August says with a grin, looping an arm around my shoulder.

Nick shoots me a mock glare. "Hey, I'm functioning. Just... slowly."

I laugh, sliding into the seat beside him. "You look like you're one step away from turning back into a zombie."

Nick shrugs. "Maybe I'm method acting for a horror flick."

August laughs, as a waiter stops at our table. "Do you have Coffee IV's? And three today's specials before we drag this one around the city."

We sip and joke, the easy back-and-forth settling any last threads of awkwardness from earlier.

After a while, we decide to wander—Amsterdam's canals and narrow streets calling to us. The city hums with life, cyclists buzzing by and the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers mixing in the air.

Nick spots a street musician playing a jazzy tune on a saxophone and claps along, teasing August about his "stiff city-boy moves." August shoots back a grin, but it's clear he's loving the moment.

We keep walking, poking into little shops, trying samples of stroopwafels and just letting the day stretch out before us.

Eventually, as the sun starts to dip, we find our way back to the hotel.

"I still have this faint memory of a priest trying to feel me up at the church yesterday. I think I'm gonna need a minute to ever feel clean again," Nick grumbles, making a face.

August nods, glancing at me. "Yeah, washing the sins away doesnt seem like the worst idea. Dinner's not far from here, so no excuses."

I smile, feeling the warmth of the day settle in. "Sounds good."

We part ways to our rooms, each carrying a little buzz from the afternoon's easy companionship—and the quiet promise that the night still holds something unexpected.

***

The restaurant is tucked down a narrow canal street, lanterns strung overhead, their golden glow shimmering on the water. We arrive in a loose, laughing knot—August walking just ahead with me, Nick, Migual and Lucas trailing dramatically behind like they're auditioning for a role in a tragedy.

Clara and Martin come strolling in from the opposite direction, hand‑in‑hand, both of them noticeably pink.

Nick freezes mid‑step, squinting like he's spotted a UFO.
"Oh. My. God." He points, scandalized. "Matching sunburns. Together. That's not sightseeing—that's a scandal in SPF."

Clara arches an eyebrow. "We went sightseeing."

"Together?" Nick repeats, scandal dialed up. "In the actual sun? Clara, blink twice if you need help."

Martin grins, perfectly deadpan. "You should see the matching sock tan we're working on."

I choke on a laugh, already leaning into the bit. "Are we sure this is work, or did you two just elope without telling HR?"

Martin and Clara just leave me - us - hanging, as they proceed in the door, Martin pulling out her chair and everything.

We've barely settled in, before questions on the destination of their honeymoon, the size of the hypothetical rock on her finger, and my question on what they'd name their firstborn.

That's when Clara tosses her napkin at me. "Ouh! This coming from a woman who whisked off in the middle of the night... with company."

"Excuse me?" I lift my eyebrows, feigning innocence. "Company? I took a cab. Alone."

Nick gasps dramatically. "Oh sure, a cab. And August just happened to be in it?"

I can't help but laugh at Nick. He did pull me aside earlier to ask if I was alright coming home last night, to make sure if I was okay. After I told him fine, it's like he's right back - still stirring up any dirt there might be.

August raises his hands, laughing. "We left at the same time, that's all."

"Mm‑hm," Nick hums, unconvinced. "I'll make sure Bo hears about these late‑night transportation shenanigans."

I shoot back instantly, grinning. "Oh, please, Bo would send you packing if he heard what that priest tried with you yesterday."

The whole table howls, Nick clutching his chest in mock offense.
"I told you! He was friendly! Some people light candles, some people grope—who am I to judge?"

Nick is halfway through miming his priest incident, and the whole table bursts into laughter again. I'm laughing too, cheeks aching, but somewhere between breaths my eyes catch August's.

He's looking at the group, at me, with that calm warmth that's so him—steady, amused, like nothing rattles him.

And it hits me like it always does when I least expect it: that tug in my chest, that tiny spark that feels like leaning too far over the edge of something I shouldn't.

I drag my gaze back to my wine glass, willing the heat in my face to fade.

Miguel actually snorts at Nick's imitation, trying to hold it in. "Friendly is one word for it."

Lucas looks up from his phone. "I can't leave you alone for just a single second without scandal."

Nick slaps his menu down. "Speaking of averting scandal, Lucas, tell them how you carried me out of that church like a Disney prince."

Lucas smirks, sliding back in his chair. "I don't kiss and tell." Beat. "But yes, I carried him. Bridal style. In front of a nun."

Clara nearly falls out of her chair laughing. "Oh my God, stop, I can see it."

"And then," Nick says, voice rising over the laughter, "he tucked me in, brought me water—"

Lucas interrupts, grinning. "You're welcome, by the way. Do you know how heavy you are when you're unconscious?"

I crack up, wiping a tear from my eye. "This is hands‑down the weirdest work trip I've ever been on."

Nick leans over to me, stage‑whispering. "And yet, you look suspiciously refreshed today. Wonder why."

I shoot him a sweet smile. "Moisturizer. You should try it; you look like an extra from The Walking Dead."

The table erupts, August shaking his head, laughing.

"Alright, children," Lucas says, clapping his hands as the waiter approaches. "I've already taken care of it."

Nick blinks. "You what?"

"I pre‑ordered," Lucas says smoothly, clearly in his element. "Bitterballen, kibbeling, kaasplankje... fries with mayo for Nick so he stops complaining... and yes, herring. You're all getting the real Amsterdam experience."

Miguel narrows his eyes. "No. How do you know what we like?"

Lucas shrugs. "I don't. But trust me—nobody hates fries and cheese. And if you do, you can starve."

"Control freak," I tease, grinning.

Lucas grins back, unfazed. "Efficient. You'll thank me when you're not still reading the menu at midnight."

Miguel dramatically lays his head on the table. "If there aren't bitterballen, I'll have you carry me home - bridal-style- tonight."

Clara winks at Nick. "Quick, get your phone. Let's call Bo and tell him what cab‑sharing leads to."

August groans, laughing. "Oh, for the love of—nothing happened."

"Sure," Clara sing‑songs.

"Yeah," Nick chimes in. "Just two colleagues, staring moon‑eyed in the backseat while the city passed by..."

I hold up my hands, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. "Honestly, if that's your fantasy, I feel bad for Bo."

The laughter swells again, bright and ridiculous, and as the first plates arrive—crispy bitterballen, golden fries, warm bread with herb butter, slices of Dutch cheese, little bowls of mustard—the teasing keeps bouncing across the table like it's the easiest thing in the world.

I look around at them, sunburned and smug, hungover and grinning, and I can feel it deep in my chest - these are not just colleagues, not only at least.

***

Plates clatter down, steam rising from the bitterballen, everyone reaching in at once like we've done this a hundred times before.

August's laughing at something Lucas says, head tipped back slightly, and in the dim light I see it again—those flickers of yellow that aren't really there, but somehow took up permanent residency through my eyes.

I know it's just the glow from the strings of bulbs overhead, a trick of the light... but it feels like something else, a tone only I recognize.

I catch myself staring—at the crinkle near his eyes, the way his sleeve brushes mine when he leans in for the fries—and that pull hits me all over again, quiet and unrelenting.

I know better than to look at him, like this, and yet my heart insists on memorizing him in this light, in this moment, like it's been starving for this without ever realizing it.

The last of the plates are cleared, and someone—maybe Miguel—lets out a theatrical groan, leaning back in his chair like he's survived some great ordeal.

Nick wipes a smear of mayo off his cheek with a napkin. "I'm calling it. My body is officially rejecting joy."

Clara laughs, her face still pink from the sun. "That's what you get for yesterday's church theatrics."

Lucas waves for the check, shaking his head at all of them. "I told you we'd eat like royalty. Now look at you."

I lean back, watching them gather their things, the laughter fading into comfortable murmurs.

***

The night air spills through the open door, cool and tempting. My legs itch to move, to stretch out the hum of the day.

"I think I'm going to walk a bit," I say lightly, reaching for my jacket. "Clear my head."

Nick groans again, dropping his head dramatically onto the table. "What are you, a tourist with endless energy? I'm one bread roll away from a coma."
"Hotel," Clara declares, already looping her arm through Martin's. He stands and presses a kiss to her temple like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Miguel mutters something about needing to sleep for a week. Lucas is already tapping on his phone, probably summoning cabs.

I push my chair back, expecting no argument, and then—
"I'll walk with you," August says, almost offhand, standing and tugging his jacket on.

It's quiet enough that Nick's head pops up. "Ohhh, here we go. Another cab‑sharing incident in the making."

I roll my eyes, tossing my napkin at him. "Jealousy's not a good look on you."
Nick smirks but doesn't push it, just lifts his water glass in a mock toast. "Fine, but just know we will file a report if decide to elope."

Outside, the night folds around us, cooler now, lantern reflections rippling on the canals. The others scatter toward taxis and the hotel, their laughter fading into the distance, leaving just the two of us standing on the cobblestone street.

August adjusts his collar, glancing toward the dark curve of the canal ahead. "Which way?"
I gesture forward, unable to stop the small smile that rises. "Anywhere - that way?"

And so we start walking—side by side, our steps falling into the same rhythm.
The canal is calm, the night air almost sweet, lanterns spilling molten pools of light onto the cobblestones. It should be peaceful. It isn't. Not with him this close.

Our shoulders brush now and then, accidental, or maybe not. Every time I catch him in the corner of my eye, that flicker of yellow is there again, sliding over his jaw, over the sweep of his hair. I know it's just lantern light. But it feels like something alive. Something aimed right at me.

I clear my throat, searching for safer ground. "Martin and Clara," I say, casting it out like a lifeline. "That's... unexpected."

August exhales a laugh through his nose, hands tucked in his pockets. Eyes on the path. "Didn't even know they spoke to each other before this week."

I smile. "It's kind of sweet, though." I tilt my head. "Like something just—snuck up on them."

He hums in agreement, then adds, without looking at me, "That's how it happens, sometimes."

That makes me glance at him—and I catch the tiniest twitch of his mouth, the kind that makes heat crawl up my neck. His expression is unreadable, but the set of his jaw gives something away.
"Is that from personal experience?" I tease, watching him sidelong.

His brow lifts, amused. "You fishing?"

"Little bit" I grin, deliberately playful.

A breath of laughter escapes him, but it's tight, like he's holding something in. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

I tilt my head, letting my shoulder nudge his just enough to feel the firmness of his arm. "I think you like it."

His eyes dart to me, sharp, then away again. He laughs under his breath. "And I think you're playing a game you said you didn't want to start."

"A game?" I ask, feigning innocence. "We're just friends. Taking a walk."

"Exactly, Just friends." he murmurs, as if repeating it to himself. His hands stay in his pockets, but I catch his thumb flex against the seam, like he's restraining himself.
"Friends don't..." He trails off, jaw working.

"Don't what?" I ask lightly, brushing my sleeve against his again. It's shameless, and I know it.

He lets out a low laugh, the sound rumbling through me. "You're going to get us both in trouble."

"Us?" I raise my brows, fighting a smile.

He glances at me, eyes glinting. "You're not exactly innocent here."

I shrug, lips curving. "If we weren't friends, I might admit I like seeing you get in trouble."

That gets him. His head tilts, his grin spreading slow. "You'd get into more trouble than you think."

"Is that a warning?"

"It's a fact," he says, his voice low enough to make my stomach tighten.

There's a tension in the air now, charged and close. I let it sit for a beat before I say, just above a whisper:

"If we weren't..."

He glances at me. Doesn't say a word.

"...friends," I finish," I might admit that every time you laugh, it—" I bite my lip, mock‑considering. "—ruins my concentration completely."

He stops mid‑step, just a beat, then catches himself. "Frederika." My name in his mouth sounds like a caution and a dare at the same time.

"What?" I widen my eyes. "We're just talking."

"You're not," he says, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile.

I know I'm not. I just can't stop the words from slipping out. Every reaction, every look, every time I get the slightest rise out of him my body jumps. Small, soft, thunders, playing all over my skin.

"If we weren't friends," he says, voice low, "I might tell you that you're making it very, very, very hard to stay just that."

That hits deeper than I expect. I don't know what to say. So I laugh instead. Light. Easy. "It's good we are then."

"Yeah," he says. "Good." But the word sounds like a lie.

I'm still very much flushing, but I want to keep going "If we weren't friends..."

"Careful," he warns, but he's smiling.

"...I might say I like the way you look in this light. I might say I keep staring because I want to memorize it."

His smile falters. "Frederika."

"What?" I step closer. Our jackets brush. "We're just talking."

"You're not," he says, quieter now. "You're—"

"What?" I challenge, half a whisper.

He swallows hard. "You're making this harder than it already is."

I don't answer. I just keep walking. He follows. A beat of silence stretches between us like thread pulled taut.

He exhales, then plays along, voice low and roughened. "If we weren't friends... I might tell you that when I picture you in my head, it's not the version from your corporate bio."

I stop walking this time, staring at him. A slow grin spreads across my lips. "Is your version better?"

He steps in just slightly, his shoulder grazing mine as he passes. "Different," he says, and the word curls around my pulse.

I laugh softly, keeping pace. "Do you picture your friends in your mind, often?"

His mouth twitches, "All the time,"

"Oh really?"

"Martin's there in the morning, really gets me through the shower. You..." His eyes flick to mine. "You don't leave."

My breath catches. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to.

"And what am I doing in this persistent mental image of yours?" I ask, voice playful but softening.

"Depends on the day," he murmurs. "But usually? Ruining my focus."

I laugh, mock-hit his shoulder, although I know deep in my mind that it's just another excuse to touch him.

His eyes flick to mine, deliberate. "...you show up when I'm cooking. Usually, telling me to stop overdoing the pasta."

Another laugh bursts out of me, unguarded. "I think that's okay to tell a friend. No shame in a little extra motivation." I grin up at him. "Am I wearing that old Blink 182 crewneck or the racoon t-shirt in your mind?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer. He steps a fraction closer, lantern light catching his jaw. "Sometimes" he says finally, voice lower now. "But sometimes it got we—"

I cut him off, playful. "Racoon it is. That's what your friend is wearing"

I wanted him to finish that sentence in so many ways, but I couldn't get myself to hear it. My pulse is already spiking to alarming levels for someone as non-fit as myself. I can't stop playing, but I need to keep my sanity for just a second longer.

He gives a little nod, like a man conceding checkmate. "Right."

"Okay... my turn," I say, glancing up at him, daring myself. "If we weren't friends, I'd tell people you're just August. Not my colleague, just someone I like being around."

His grin falters, softens, and something moves in his eyes that makes my chest feel too tight. He swallows, looks ahead, then back at me. He slows his pace until we're almost standing still.
"If we weren't friends," he says quietly, "I might - just might - tell you I haven't stopped thinking about that morning in Copenhagen where you showered me with coffee. You didn't even look at me. And somehow, that was worse than if you had—" His jaw flexes. "—it's been impossible to think straight ever since."

I falter in my step, staring at him. "You... might?"

"Might," he says, looking ahead like he didn't just unravel me. By his slight smirk, I think he knows very well.

I try to laugh, but it's soft, shaky. "Good thing we're friends then."

"Yeah," he murmurs, but the way he looks at me says he doesn't believe a word of it.

We keep walking, slower now, and my heart's thundering. Each lantern we pass throws that flicker of yellow on his face, and I can't stop looking. It's like the secrets I keep just keep pounding from within me, raging to be let out.

Then I stop. Full stop.

He stops, too. His breath fogs in the air between us. I look up at him, heart thudding. My own pulse a roar,

"If we weren't friends," I say finally, my voice low, "I might tell you that when you stood in front of the sunflowers, that yellow light flickered over you... and I.. think that's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He exhales sharply, eyes meeting mine with something raw. "Don't do this." His voice is hoarse, warning and longing tangled together. "We should stop."

And I can feel it now, sharper than ever—the guilt curling deep in my chest. Guilt because I know I've been leaning toward him like a moth to light, guilt because the rules I built for myself are slipping through my fingers. Guilt because I can't even remember anymore what exactly is holding me back. What could be, when being with him is like nothing else I've ever experienced.

Words tumbling out before I can catch them."That smile," I whisper, stepping closer to him. "No one's ever seen it before. You created that. It didn't exist until you."

His eyes shut, his breath stuttering - like the line between us is the only thing holding him upright. My hands slide up, curling behind his neck, and for the first time I see him still, utterly still, like every wall he's built is trembling. His serious expression - a quiet plea I should heed—but I don't.

I pull him down, and I kiss him.

At first, he doesn't move.
It's like kissing stone, like every muscle in him is locked tight with the effort of stopping himself.
For one heartbeat, two, three—I think I've ruined it all. That I've misread him entirely, that I've broken something fragile we'll never get back. His hands don't move, his mouth doesn't move—he just stands there over me, breathing shallow, and the silence in him terrifies me.

I break away an inch, eyes searching his face, panic rising in my chest.
"August... I—"

But then his hand comes up to the back of my neck. He exhales against my mouth, shaky, almost a groan, and something in him gives way. His hands lift—hesitant at first, then sure—one cupping the back of my head, the other sliding low against my spine as though he's been holding back this exact motion for months.

The kiss deepens, raw and uneven, like neither of us knows how to do this carefully. My pulse hammers. A soft sound slips out of me as his lips part mine, as his hand finds my waist, pulling me flush against him. My fingers slide into his hair and we lose ourselves—right there in the soft lantern glow, in the middle of a quiet street where time just... falls away.

When he finally tears his mouth from mine, we're both gasping, foreheads pressed together. He's shaking his head slightly, like he can't believe himself. His thumb traces my cheekbone, tender, almost reverent.

"This..." he breathes, his voice rough, "this wasn't supposed to happen."

"I know." My own voice is shaking. "I know."

But neither of us steps back.

His eyes search mine, desperate and tender and terrified all at once. "Tell me to stop," he says, almost pleading.

I open my mouth. I should.
But the only thing that comes out is a whisper:
"We should stop."

For a long moment, he just stares at me, like he's memorizing something he knows he can't keep. Then his lips brush mine again, softer this time, like an apology and a confession wrapped into one.

I pull him to me like it's a mechanism, like he belongs closer to me, how our kiss should always be deeper. But he keeps me just an inch at bay.

"Frederika..don't do thi-" His voice is hoarse, almost breaking. "If you're not sure.."

"I don't know," I whisper, breathless, my heart thundering against his chest. "I'm sorry. I don't know what any of this means." I close my eyes, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "But I know I don't want this to stop."

For a split second, something flashes in his eyes—something sharp, hurt threaded through the longing.

"You don't know what it means," he repeats, his voice low. He leans back just enough to look at me properly, searching my face. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

The guilt curls tight in my chest. My hands are still tangled behind his neck, holding on because I don't know how not to.

"I don't," I whisper. "I don't know anything right now... except that I've never wanted anyone like this." My breath hitches. "I've been with people. For fucks sake, I've been with so many people. But it's never felt like this. Never—like I'm coming apart and alive all at once."

His eyes shut, jaw tight, and a shuddered laugh escapes him—painful and beautiful at the same time.

"You're going to kill me," he breathes, forehead pressing to mine.

"Maybe," I say, my lips brushing his. "But not tonight."

He exhales like he's surrendering. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" My fingers curl in his shirt, tugging him closer. "It's true."

His mouth crashes back onto mine, stealing whatever else I might have said. This kiss is deeper, hungrier—every ounce of restraint falling away. He breaks away only to murmur against my lips, "You know, you're the one breaking the line you drew."

"And you're letting me," I whisper, smiling against his mouth.

He laughs softly, but it's frayed at the edges, full of something like relief. "You're out of your mind."

"Definetely," I breathe, kissing him again

The world is hushed around us—the canal, the lanterns, the distant hum of city life—but here, everything is too loud: the rush in my ears, the ache in my chest, the way his hands linger like he doesn't trust them to leave.

I don't think I've ever felt this before. Not even in my hypermanias. It's like everything about him just makes my body light up.

We start moving, though I don't even know who leads who—our arms locked around each other as we stumble forward down the dimly lit street. His hand slides to the small of my back, and we're kissing again, blindly, laughing into each other's mouths when we almost trip over a cobblestone, kissing up against every single dimly lit wall.

The hotel is suddenly there, looming warm and golden. We don't stop. We push through the doors, still tangled, still tasting each other like we've been starved for this.

The elevator dings and he backs me inside, my back hitting the mirrored wall. His lips find my neck, my jaw, then my mouth again, and I can't stop the soft moan that escapes me. His hand tangles in my hair, holding me steady as he kisses me like I'm going to vanish if he doesn't pin me down.

His hands find their way up my thighs, slowly, deliberate, like he knows how it sends jolts of heat down my spine. He bites the nook of my neck and breathes into it "My room, dress not invited". My head tilts back by the mere thought of being in his room, frustration over the wait almost peaking. Just like that, the door slides open.

We stumble into the hallway, our steps messy, urgent, lips never parting. He fumbles with his keycard at his door, both of us laughing breathlessly into the kiss, and then the lock clicks and we tumble inside.