I pointed upwards. “Keep going, we’re almost there.”
By the time we reached the top, the air had changed. It was quieter, as if the city had dropped a layer of noise somewhere below us.
Kieran moved straight to the stone railing. I understood that reaction: the view was amazing. Berlin stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see: rooftops, trees, the rivercutting through it all with quiet precision, meandering around the island. Straight boulevards radiated out from the centre, and over in Alexanderplatz, there was the glitter of sunlight on glass.
He rested his hands on the stone, leaning forwards, and for a moment, it was as if he’d forgotten everything else.
I took in the way he stood, how the tension had eased out of him. Then he became aware of me again. I saw it happen in the shift of his shoulders, the way he turned to include me in the space.
I rested my hand on his lower back as I gazed at the view.
“This has been a wonderful day,” he said in a hushed tone.
I turned my head towards him. “It’s not over yet.” I pointed across the river. “There’s a bar over there. Good cocktails, and an even better view.” I paused. “We could sit and watch the world go by.”
He smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
For a moment, neither of us moved, contained in a quiet bubble of time. His hand still rested on the stone, mine at his back, the contact easy now, unquestioned.
Kieran looked out over the city again, and I found myself watching him instead.
I loved the way he adjusted—quickly, honestly—when something shifted. There was no pretence with him, no performance.
I was no longer curious where this might go.
I wanted to see how far he’d follow.
Chapter Eleven
Stefan
The bar sat beneath a canopy,overlooking the river, the late afternoon light catching on the water in shifting fragments.
Kieran leaned back in his chair, his shoulders looser than they’d been all day.
He needed this.
I understood how his suspension might weigh heavily. The hardest part had to be the waiting.
But at least he’s doing that here, not stuck in Manchester, waiting for the axe to fall.
I didn’t doubt his innocence for a second, and I burned with indignation and rage that someone could even think of putting this sweet man through hell. I silently wished for an eternity of STIs to plague that lying little shit.
Then it hit me.
Sweet man.
I’m already invested in this, aren’t I?
For a while, neither of us spoke. The city moved around us: boats cutting through the water, the hum of traffic bufferedby distance. Along the embankment, people drifted to and fro, laughing, holding hands.
He shifted forwards, resting his arms on the table, his gaze following the river. “Do you do this a lot?”
“Bring strangers to bars with good views?” I asked innocently.
He smirked. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
“I know.” I leaned back, watching him. “No, I don’t usually do—” I clammed up.