I was 18, and life was a mess. The kind of mess you don’t clean up because you’re too busy trying to survive it. My parents’ divorce had left me scarred, and running away at 16 only made it worse. But survival? I’d gotten good at that, real good. I’d learned to fend for myself, to use what I had—my lean frame, my messy brown hair, and those mischievous eyes that seemed to get me out of trouble more often than not. I’d figured out early on that people, especially men, couldn’t resist them. It was like they saw something in my gaze they wanted to own, to control—or, better yet, to be controlled by.

So, I played the game. I’d let them stare, let them linger a little too long, and then I’d work it. A sly smile here, a flirty comment there. I didn’t have much, but I had my body, and I used it like a tool. If it meant a warm bed for the night or a few bucks in my pocket, I’d do what I had to. I learned how to read people, how to figure out what they wanted before they even knew it themselves. Some wanted a quick thrill, others wanted the boyfriend experience—something soft and tender to make them feel special. And me? I gave them what they wanted and made sure I walked away with something in return.

But this? This was something else entirely. This was Sam. He didn’t just look at me; he saw me. And for the first time, I felt like maybe I wasn’t just surviving. Maybe I was starting to live.

I’d known Sam for about two years by then. We met during an anti-Nazi demonstration, running from the cops, hearts pounding and adrenaline surging. That’s where our friendship started—in chaos. He worked as a mechanic or something like that. Honestly, I never paid much attention. We bonded over punk music, cheap beer, and the kind of reckless freedom that only comes when you’re young and feel like the world owes you something. We’d spend nights smoking cigarettes, laughing, and just trying to forget the messes our lives had become.

Sam was hot—not as hot as me, obviously—but there was something about him. That edge, that quiet intensity. He carried himself like he knew things, like he’d seen things I hadn’t. Maybe he had. We’d tease each other, push each other’s buttons, but there was always this tension. A spark. Still, somehow, we’d never crossed that line. Not yet.

Looking back now, I realize how little I really knew about him. He was my friend, sure, but there were layers to Sam I hadn’t even scratched. He kept parts of himself hidden, and maybe I did too. We were just two guys trying to survive, trying to find something real in a world that didn’t give a damn. And then that night happened, and everything changed.

That day, we were in his tiny apartment in Berlin, the kind of place that smelled like old cigarettes and instant noodles. I was leaning against his kitchen table, arms crossed, giving him my usual attitude. I was wearing one of my baggies and a way-too-slim shirt—the kind that clung to my lean frame, accentuating every curve and muscle. I liked how it made me feel, like I was in control of how people saw me. Hot, confident, untouchable. And Sam? He just stood there in his jeans and a plain shirt, not trying at all. But that was the thing about Sam—he didn’t need to try. He just was.

His dark eyes were locked on mine, and the air between us was charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. I tilted my head, my smirk sharp, my tone dripping with that snarky edge I knew drove him crazy. “What’s the matter, Sam? Cat got your tongue?”

He didn’t flinch, just kept staring, his jaw twitching ever so slightly. It was maddening. And sexy. So damn sexy. There was something about the way he got all quiet and intense when I pushed his buttons. It made my skin prickle, my pulse quicken.