Stepping out of the house for the first time since the incident, Daniel winced as he felt the sharp ache in his right foot, pain that only seemed to worsen with each stubborn step he took over the uneven cobblestones of the street outside their townhouse. The air was crisp, carrying the early scent of autumn—damp leaves and a faint chill that pierced through his coat. He didn’t want to be out here, not quite ready to face the world, but he couldn’t bear another minute of being confined to his bed, the walls pressing in on him like they, too, were part of the pain. “Fuck,” he hissed, stumbling slightly as his foot met a particularly jagged edge of stone, sending a stab of agony through his leg. Alex’s words rang loud in his head, almost taunting him: “I don’t see why you insist on not using the crutch. You’re only going to make it worse.”
But Daniel was adamant. He refused to use the crutch, that visible admission of weakness. He didn’t need an audience for this struggle. It was bad enough his face would draw enough sympathy and unwanted advice when he made his way back to work. The thought of limping in, dramatic and helpless, twisted his stomach. Sympathy was something he despised—worse than pity, worse than criticism—and so, he forced himself forward, determined to make it seem like the pain didn’t exist. He’d never been good at following rules when they felt like restraints, and today was no different.
This was supposed to be the first step back to normalcy after that dark return he'd so fiercely rejected. A return that clawed at the very foundation of his progress, threatening to undo everything he’d fought so hard to overcome. But that wouldn't happen; he wouldn't allow it. The resolve grew stronger as he remembered the late-night call to Lara, his beloved sister—a lifeline, her voice pulling him back when he was sinking. Lara was the light through his storm, a voice so distinctly Icelandic it made him feel whole, even from miles away. “These things are common, darling. Setbacks, I mean. People with severe trauma, PTSD... it's unpredictable. It’s not your fault, my heart,” she’d said, her voice both comforting and wise. He could see her face so clearly as she spoke, the bright-blue eyes that held that worry only he could read, and he knew her call was a lifeline she was tossing to him in the hopes he'd grasp it. She always knew what to say to bring him back, to remind him that he was stronger than the darkness that had haunted them both.
“You know your Lala,” she’d teased gently, “always the Nancy Drew of the family. I read up on everything. Don’t think this is your fault, darling.” He could feel her love like a gentle tide washing over him, and he sat up straighter in bed, pulling on the white jumper, its soft cotton brushing against his skin, a small effort to look more "together" than he felt. “My God, you even look strikingly handsome with a face wound,” she’d laughed, her voice like a balm. “I don’t know why I worried about that pretty face of yours for even a second.”
Daniel realized then why she'd insisted on FaceTime; she needed to see him, to see for herself that he was still there, still fighting. The love between them was palpable, a thread that wove through the years, unbreakable. But this vanity—this fixation on beauty—it was a currency their family had always traded in, a stock they kept closer watch over than their finances. To be a Dansson was to be both blessed and cursed by beauty. Daniel’s family was graced with looks that made people pause, but it came with the pressure to maintain that allure at all costs. His parents, Dísa and Hjörtur, were the root of this obsession. They saw their children’s successes not just as individual triumphs but as extensions of their own worth. They’d crafted their lives around it—perfect dinner parties, elegant clothes, and pictures that framed their perfection in every room of the house. The façade of the privileged, successful family who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine spread. And yet, Daniel knew the fractures beneath that polished surface.
Dísa, a former Miss Reykjavik, had once been the pride of their town, her beauty renowned across Iceland. But Hjörtur, a young businessman, had taken her away from that life of limelight, and she never truly forgave him for it. She spoke of her lost chances in wistful tones—the body she’d lost to motherhood, the dreams she’d sacrificed for the family she was bound to. Her bitterness over never becoming the star she believed she was destined to be spilled over into the way she doted on Daniel. To her, he was the reclamation of that lost dream, the golden boy who brought glamour back into their lives. When his face started appearing on screens, they saw it as vindication; he was living the life she’d been denied.
But that focus on appearance, on success, on winning over the elusive approval of their social circle—it left cracks in their family. Kristján, the eldest brother, felt the pressure to become the ultra-successful businessman Hjörtur had never truly been—something which, despite his talents, left him with an unshakable need for validation. And Ingvar, just a year younger than Daniel, had always been the shadow—struggling to live up to the perfection expected of him but never quite achieving it. Where Daniel’s beauty seemed effortless, Ingvar’s was complicated, elusive, like a figure seen through fog. And the parents, with their peculiar way of nurturing, encouraged his suffering as if it were an artist’s muse. He was meant to transform his pain into something beautiful: the sculptor, the painter, the writer, the tortured genius who’d redeem Dísa’s unrealized ambitions.
And then there was Lara—the surprise, the accident, the precious cherry on top of the family’s tangled history. Born seven years after Ingvar, she was everything they weren’t—joyful, gentle, a lightness about her that made the rest of the family soften, if only for a moment. Where the boys bore the weight of expectation, Lara was different, a respite from their parent’s incessant pursuit of status. They let her grow wild and free, and Daniel, with the wisdom of an older brother and the intuition of someone who’d lived through the Dansson perfectionist storm, vowed silently to protect her. He’d felt the weight of their parents’ expectations—their need to build their egos on the backs of their children—and he wouldn’t let that fall on Lala.
He used his emotional intelligence to steer them, reminding Dísa of her own childhood stories, of how she hated being in her sister’s shadow. He gently made them see that Lara, sweet little Lala, was more than some antidote to their failures, more than a tool to bandage the fractures in their pride. And, thank God, it worked. She was spared—allowed to be herself, free from the intense scrutiny that had shaped the rest of them.
For that, Lara loved him fiercely. She felt his protection as tangibly as she felt the wool of her sweaters or the chill of an Icelandic breeze. Even when he was far away—on a film set across the ocean, buried in a modelling shoot in America, or finding love in the arms of someone new—she knew he was looking out for her. And Daniel, for all his flaws and ambitions, had never planned to lean on her love the way he now found himself needing to. But there she was, always on his side, always ready to remind him that he wasn’t alone. A fierce ally, deeply religious herself, she stood up against the Church for her brother in front of all of Iceland, becoming a voice for all queer people who needed someone to stand for them. She was a gift, the one bright, uncomplicated light in his life—a true friend, a sister, an unwavering presence in his darkest hours.
And as he thought back to their call, her laughter ringing in his memory, he couldn’t help but feel that spark of hope again. He was still fighting, still strong. And as long as he had Lara in his corner, he knew he wouldn’t be fighting alone.
***
Walking past the security guards at the front entrance of the Fresslier Foundation building, Daniel felt the instinctual urge to straighten his posture, as if to walk taller, bolder. The guards eyed him, curiosity flashing in their glances—it wasn’t common for anyone from his team to arrive before 9 a.m., yet here he was, striding in just after 8 a.m. “What happened to you?” asked the older guard, the one who always prodded into business that wasn’t his to know. The man’s curiosity was palpable, the kind that settled into the lines of his face, well-worn from years of watching lives pass by.
“Just a minor accident during renovations over the weekend,” Daniel replied, his voice calm, measured. He softened the words with a polite smile but quickly tempered it with a stern look—just enough to discourage any follow-up. He didn’t need sympathy, certainly not from a guard, certainly not today. “Have a good one, fellas.” He kept moving, not breaking his stride.
He sank into his chair behind the expansive, polished walnut desk, one he had hunted for over months, finally found in a quaint Amsterdam antique shop, purchased with his own money, and transported to the office without the Foundation ever knowing its price. The chair he sat in—a vintage Eames Lounge Chair—creaked ever so slightly under his weight, its soft black leather moulding to his frame like a glove. Daniel relished the feel of it—the luxury, the beauty, and the comfort it provided. Every inch of his office, from the silk Persian rug beneath his feet to the mid-century bookcases lining the walls, had been chosen with care. He believed in surrounding himself with elegance, with pieces that held history and craftsmanship, regardless of cost. It was his domain, a space that defined him, one that set him apart from the mundane sterility of the standard issue offices around him. Most people wouldn’t understand why he’d spend so much on his workspace, but to him, beauty was power, and he felt most powerful here.
Leaning back in his chair, he inhaled the familiar scent of the room—a blend of rich leather, polished wood, and the gentle fragrance of vetiver oil diffusing from the sleek crystal diffuser on his desk. The aroma was subtle yet luxurious, like the lingering touch of an expensive cologne, wrapping the room in a sense of calm and elegance. Everything was meticulously arranged, cleaned over the weekend so that no dust marred the sheen of his surroundings.
He inhaled deeply. This office, this oasis of calm, was where he felt strongest. Where his help to others felt like a salve for his own wounds—a way of reclaiming something lost. The morning light spilled into the room, brushing against the polished wood of his desk, glinting off the brass lamp, casting shadows that danced along the bookshelves. It struck the computer screen at just the right angle to create a slight glare, but Daniel didn't want to stand and adjust the blinds; his foot ached, and the effort felt like more than he could afford.
He opened his laptop and the company computer, his fingers moving effortlessly across the keys. He checked emails—a perfunctory glance—and skimmed through the agenda for the day. It was going to be an easy Monday, just as he liked. He’d always preferred a gentle start to the week, one that allowed people to settle back into the rhythm of work before plunging into meetings and discussions. It was something he’d been praised for as a leader—a skill in creating balance, in knowing how to make people feel at ease. Yet, Daniel often saw it as nothing more than a projection of his own needs. He hated pressure, the suffocating kind that came with expectation, so he led others as he’d want to be led himself. And that seemed to work, to keep his team motivated, content. He took pride in that, in the small victories that made him feel in control.
But even as he sat there, surrounded by comfort, his thoughts circled back to Michal. The boy had a way of creeping into his mind unbidden, a spectre of beauty and chaos that haunted his waking moments. He wondered what Michal’s Sunday in Haarlem had been like—the sun falling over the canals, the golden hue of the old Dutch architecture. He imagined him there, exploring the cobbled streets, smiling, but with someone else by his side. Someone whose face Daniel couldn’t see but whose presence he resented all the same. The thought of some stranger showing Michal around filled him with anger—a bitter, tight jealousy. Who was this person, and what right did they have to be near Michal?
His pulse quickened. Whoever it was, they were probably taking advantage of him. Probably paying for his hotel, using their money to get close to him, to claim what wasn’t rightfully theirs. Some mediocre, unremarkable man from Amsterdam, Daniel thought with disgust, offering Michal a room key and expecting something in return. If Michal had needed a place to stay, why didn’t he ask Daniel? He would’ve paid for his hotel. He would’ve driven him there himself, given him more than any opportunistic fool could.
He shifted in his chair, the leather protesting softly beneath him, the anger rising in his throat like bile. Was Michal deceiving him? Hadn’t he been through enough—enough lies, enough pain? And yet, there he was in Amsterdam, doing God knows what, with God knows who. The boy’s face—his beautiful, haunting face—flashed in Daniel’s mind. Those green eyes, that intoxicating smile. It was a face he could never get out of his head, even when he tried. He needed to see him again, to remind himself that Michal belonged to him, at least for that moment.
He reached for his phone, scrolling quickly to the album labelled "Czech boy," the name he’d given it before he knew who Michal really was. It was full of pictures—photos that Michal had sent over time, capturing him from all angles, in all moods. Daniel flicked through them now, stopping to zoom in on his favourite parts—Michal’s eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, his arms, the curve of his ass, even the slender, elegant fingers that had touched him, been inside of him. The thought of those fingers made him catch his breath; they were his fingers, or they would be tomorrow.
With a smile that was both anxious and hopeful, he typed out a message, the words spilling out as quickly as his thoughts:
"Hey there beautiful, thanks for the message. Yes, I’m really ok, just a bit banged up. I look like a bad boy? Haha, well I’m glad the new look doesn’t scare you off! I didn’t know you were into bad boys… ;) I was thinking we should finally make some plans for tomorrow? I’m at work but let me know if you’re free to text, call, whatever. Thinking about you!"
He hit "send," watching the text vanish, and immediately scrolled up in their chat to enlarge the selfie he’d sent Michal just a day before. He looked at himself critically—the way the bruising along his cheekbone had softened, lending him an almost rakish quality, like some fallen movie star. “Hmm, I do look kind of hot,” he whispered to himself, feeling a flicker of pride, “like a bad boy.” But before he could indulge in the thought any further, he heard Sophie’s laugh somewhere in the distance—a reminder that he wasn’t alone here. He’d need to put on his best act, like he always did.
***
The day went well, better than he had hoped. Everyone except Sophie seemed to swallow his clumsy story of a renovation accident. He’d seen her knowing look, felt it like the unmistakable tug of a loose thread—one pull, and everything could unravel. And yet, she held her silence today. She was always like that: mindful, supportive at just the right moment. So Sophie.
It wasn’t so much a spring in his heart as a current beneath the surface—a charge that hummed through his veins, lifting him from the ache of his injuries and his scattered thoughts. And that charge came from the texts, the rapid, breathless exchanges with Michal all morning. Plans fell into place like raindrops on a window, each one gathering momentum. “I have been thinking about you too,” Michal wrote. “I want you.” Then, “I’m so glad you suggested we meet again before I go back home.”
The messages threaded through his day like golden stitches, binding everything together with the promise of tomorrow. Nothing else mattered—not the story he told his colleagues, not the exhaustion—only the thought of seeing Michal, of being seen by him again.
The plans were the tricky part. Michal wanted their last night together at a hotel in either Amsterdam or The Hague, close enough for him to catch the bus back home the next morning. A hotel was the obvious choice—no awkward introductions to Alex, no fragile moments fractured by domestic reality. But how to explain it to Alex? He didn’t yet have the words; the memory of the last few days was still too raw, the ground too soft beneath his feet. But it was their last chance, their only chance for a while.
He booked a hotel in Amsterdam, framing it to Michal as a little escape. He didn’t mention money—he never would—but there was no way he’d let Michal chip in this time. And while he had no intention of actually sleeping there—too risky, too complicated to explain—he couldn’t afford to delay making plans, not with tomorrow looming. The plan had to be perfect: smooth enough that Michal would believe it, seamless enough that Alex wouldn’t notice. Everyone had to be happy.
Then came the photo. Michal stepped out of the shower, bare skin beaded with droplets, his white towel slung low over his hips, barely concealing what lay beneath. “Looking forward to turning my bad boy into a good boy tomorrow,” read the text beneath the image, and it left Daniel stunned, breathless, unravelled in all the right ways. He stared at the lines of Michal’s sculpted body, the dark trail of hair down his stomach disappearing beneath the towel. His heart raced—definitely a hotel towel. But where? And why? Is it good, or is it bad?
He tilted his phone, zooming in, searching the background for clues—just steam-damp tiles, bare walls, no shampoo bottles or toiletries to hint at anything more. Amsterdam hotels aren’t like this; too simple, too plain. His fingers trembled. Who took this picture? he thought, his heart dropping. Michal wouldn’t... he couldn’t... be reckless enough to send a photo someone else had taken, right? It had to be a timer. It had to be. But he could feel it—the thread of paranoia, unwinding.
“All yours tomorrow, sexy,” he typed back after hesitating, deleting words, starting over, his thumb hovering over every key as if the letters were landmines.
Outside his office window, the city pulsed with the rhythms of rush hour, streams of people hurrying home to places he couldn’t reach. In his office, he felt powerful, safe, the heavy wooden desk between him and the world like a shield. He stayed later than usual, faked being on a call when he saw Sophie coming to say goodbye, and waved her off with a smile. “Wednesday,” he mouthed. She smiled back, but her eyes betrayed her—the worry there, the unspoken questions.
***
Back home, he stood in front of the mirror, peeling away the bandage on his forehead as the nurse had instructed. The stitches above his eyebrow glinted under the bathroom light, and bruises bloomed across his face in deep purples and greens, like some chaotic, finger-painted landscape. He needed them to fade, to fall away before tomorrow, to be himself again.
The shower became his refuge, his waterfall. Under its cascade, he tried to let the water wash it all away—the ache, the anxiety, the memories. He let the stream pour over him, hard and unyielding, hoping it would drown out the noise in his mind. But then, like water spilling over rocks, his thoughts flooded back, unstoppable. He slid to the tiled floor, the spray beating down on him as the past clawed its way up, through the cascade and into his lungs.
Her eyes. Always her eyes. That relentless, unwavering stare—Bára, the wave that never receded. Her obsession had consumed him, shaped him, left him gasping for air. She wasn’t his first stalker; not even the last. But Bára’s spell had been different, darker, like something cast in moonlight. It took years to untangle himself from her, to free himself from the grip of that last night in Reykjavík.
“Are you okay in there, D?” Alex’s voice cut through the fog, muffled by the door. There was no escaping, no hiding. Rage flared. Why did he push away the love others offered him? Why did everything warp into something twisted? “Yeah, all good! Have fun!” he called back, waiting until Alex’s footsteps faded down the stairs before he tried to stand.
What’s wrong with me?
***
The evening fell into quiet, the kind he cherished—just him, the low glow of lights, and Storm, the ever-hungry, ever-needy black cat twining around his ankles. Daniel couldn’t help but laugh as Storm flopped over, presenting his belly in that familiar plea for rubs. “Always needing, always craving, huh?” he mused, running his hand through Storm’s sleek fur. “Guess we’re not so different, are we?” And for a moment, the image of himself—purring, greedy, hungry for touch—made him laugh, mouth full of popcorn.
Cooking felt like too much effort, and there were perks to living with your still-husband. Leftover pasta, ready to devour, another of Alex’s creations. Italian and Asian flavours, tangled together in ways only Alex could pull off. And then there was the plate of fruit, neatly wrapped with a post-it that read, “Eat me, or else.” Alex always insisted on fruit, his way of showing care, of feeding love along with worry. Daniel wolfed down the pasta, then polished off the fruit before the microwave popcorn had even finished popping. He wasn’t truly hungry, but Michal liked his men big—and Daniel couldn’t forget that.
