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With a tired look on his face, Jonas walks through the doors of his university and heads down the endless corridors leading to the lecture hall indicated on his schedule. He weaves his way through the crowd of students moving in all directions, and already a knot forms in his stomach, fueled by the unpleasant feeling of being watched. Several times, he glances to the right, then to the left, convinced that all eyes are on him, as if everyone is watching his every move. Uncomfortable, Jonas lowers his eyes to the ground and quickens his pace, eager to reach the lecture hall as quickly as possible. A few students are already seated there, and he immediately catches their attention. Two young women abruptly stop their conversation, stare at him for a few moments, then lean toward each other and whisper, a stifled laugh betraying their lack of discretion. Jonas frowns, unable to understand what could provoke such a reaction. 
However, he doesn't try to investigate further. The fatigue that overwhelms him this morning robs him of any energy to dwell on such details. He chooses a seat in a remote corner of the room, takes out his computer, and opens the folder for the morning's class. The title that appears on the screen elicits a sigh: philosophy. This subject has been with him since the beginning of his studies, but he has never managed to appreciate it, and seeing it on the syllabus for his final year of journalism made him grimace. Today, even more so, he is not sure he will be able to retain much. His eyelids were heavy, his body drained. His boss had been horrible the day before, and he hadn't made it back to bed until late at night. All because of some idiot who couldn't watch where he was going.

Working alongside his studies was the price Jonas had agreed to pay to attend one of the most prestigious universities in Europe. When he received his letter of acceptance to Nice, he didn't hesitate for long before leaving his native Denmark to settle on the French Riviera. His family couldn't afford to pay for both his studies and his accommodation in this city, and even though this little job in a bar was far from his dream job, he had little choice. Jonas never thought of complaining: he knows how lucky he is to have been accepted into such an institution and he had vowed to do everything necessary to succeed there. So, every evening, he puts on his apron and works his shift, usually until midnight. But yesterday, things got out of hand. While carrying a crate of bottles, he was bumped into by a distracted customer, lost his balance, and saw the glass shatter into pieces on the floor. The boss wouldn't hear of it: either Jonas agreed to make up for the losses by staying to work until the end of the night, or the amount would be deducted directly from his paycheck. The bottles were expensive, far too expensive for him to be able to afford such a deduction from his pay. Resigned, he had therefore accepted, with a heavy heart, without really having a choice.

As if that weren't enough, one last incident had kept him there even longer. As he was leaving, a drunk customer had bumped into him, knocking them both onto the sidewalk. The man, perhaps younger than Jonas, staggered, unable to stand without clinging to him. His grip was surprisingly firm, revealing unexpected strength in his trembling arms. In a slurred voice, he asked Jonas if he would wait a few minutes with him for his driver to pick him up. And Jonas, too kind, unable to say no, nodded. Despite his annoyance and weariness, this boy inspired a kind of compassion in him. In the darkness, he could see the dull gleam in his eyes, an almost palpable sadness. So he waited, and didn't slip into bed until after three in the morning.
This morning, his face bears the marks of a restless night. Jonas stifles a yawn, sighs, tells himself that the day will be endless, and already dreams of the moment when he can return to his bed.

“Hey, look who's here! Vingegaard, tell me, you had a good evening yesterday, didn't you?”

Jonas slowly looks up from his computer as three familiar figures walk through the doors of the lecture hall. In front of him is Mikkel Delcourt, followed by his two inseparable sidekicks, Andreas Caradec and Arthur Lund. Since arriving in Nice, Jonas has never been able to stand Mikkel, and yet, by cruel coincidence, he has ended up in the same class as him every year. Everything about the tall, dark-haired man was unbearable to him: an arrogant daddy's boy, loaded with money, convinced that the whole world should bend to his whims.

Jonas still remembers their early days, when he naively tried to strike up a friendly conversation with him. Mikkel's first reaction was to laugh loudly at his Danish accent in front of about thirty stunned students. Jonas felt his cheeks burn, his throat tighten, forced to swallow his tears so as not to humiliate himself further. That day, Jonas didn't yet understand that he had just been designated, despite himself, as Mikkel's favorite target.

But since then, there had been no respite. From that day on, the remarks had become part of everyday life: whispered insinuations in the hallway, muffled snickers when he raised his hand in class, exaggerated sighs when he spoke. Almost all the other students had followed suit, some out of cowardice, others out of simple fear of becoming the next victim. Jonas, introverted by nature, did not have the weapons to fight back. He chose silence, thinking that indifference would eventually wear Mikkel down. But it only fueled his determination.

Then there was that day, etched in his memory like a burn, when Mikkel crossed the line and Jonas realized that his studies were going to turn into hell. Jonas was sitting in an empty hallway, a quiet corner where he had gotten into the habit of sitting between classes. Jonas loved to write, and his notebook was open on his lap. He scribbled sentences, drafts of articles he had started several weeks ago, his own thoughts on tennis, a sport he had always loved, and its leading figures, but also personal notes, pieces of himself that he would never have dared to share aloud. It was Wout, a long-time friend who knew Jonas' passion for writing, who had given him this notebook before Jonas flew to Nice, and Jonas cherished it dearly.

He hadn't heard the footsteps approaching behind him. Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed him by the collar and pinned him against the cold wall. Breathless, Jonas looked up and met Mikkel's predatory smile. His nimble fingers snatched the notebook before Jonas could even react.

“Well, what's this?” Mikkel sneered as he leafed through it. “Oh, but our little Dane thinks he's a writer!”

“Give it back,” Jonas begged, his voice low, almost strangled by fear. “Please, give it back...”

But Mikkel ignored him completely. He held the notebook high, loud enough for a few students gathered nearby to notice the scene. In a theatrical voice, he began to read aloud:

“‘Tennis is a mirror of life, a struggle against oneself...’” He paused, burst out laughing, and resumed with exaggerated intonations. “Seriously?! Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a failed poet!”

Laughter erupted around them, sharp and cruel, like knife stabs. Jonas felt his heart pounding in his chest, his cheeks burning, and his eyes stinging.

“Mikkel... stop... give it back to me, please,” he repeated, his voice trembling.

Mikkel looked down at him, satisfied to see him frozen, unable to move. He continued turning the pages, pausing to throw out more barbs:

"‘Timeless elegance...’ Oh, look at that! Jonas, the poet of yellow balls! Guys, did you know that our Dane dreams of becoming a sports journalist? With that, he'll end up in the parish newsletter, nothing more!"

Laughter erupted in the hallway, dry and humiliating, ringing like slaps in Jonas's ears. His heart was pounding, his hands were sweaty, and his chest felt tight.

“Stop... give it back to me, please...” he repeated, almost pleading this time.

Mikkel looked up at him, a glint of cruelty in his eyes. “Do you really think that's worth anything?”

Then, with a sharp movement, Mikkel tore several pages out of the notebook. Jonas stifled a sob, his hands outstretched toward him, but he didn't move, frozen, his back still pressed against the wall.

“No, stop! Not that!” His voice was barely audible, a desperate whisper.

Mikkel crumpled the pages slowly, almost with relish, before throwing them on the ground as if they were worthless. He handed him back the mutilated notebook with a nonchalant gesture and walked away laughing, followed by his accomplices.

Jonas remained motionless, his legs trembling, his breath short. His fingers closed around the notebook, clutching the damaged object to him as if it were a wounded body. Then, slowly, he bent down to pick up the torn, crumpled pages, trampled on by those who passed by without paying attention. He didn't say a word. Not a complaint, not a protest. Only that heavy silence, laden with shame.

Jonas never told anyone about it. Not a teacher, not a classmate, not even his family back in Denmark. He was too afraid that no one would take him seriously. Too ashamed to appear weak. And above all, too afraid of reliving the humiliation by talking about it again. Jonas simply endured it in silence. And Jonas has been enduring it in silence for almost two years now.
Mikkel approaches him with that mean smile he knows all too well. Jonas frowns, already sighing, guessing that nothing good can come out of his mouth at this hour.

"So tell me, is this how you work? You must be pretty comfortable financially now, right? With all that people say, athletes pay well, right?"

Jonas looks at him questioningly, annoyed but not surprised. He has now grown accustomed to the little jibes, even if they usually concern his accent, his social reserve, his light hair, or his overly thin body, which has already earned him a thousand taunts.

“What are you talking about? And coming from a guy who's never worked a day in his life, you're in no position to give me lessons,” he retorts sharply.

Mikkel bursts out laughing, his two accomplices giggling behind him like malicious echoes.

“Oh, come on, Vingegaard, don't play innocent! We're in journalism school, everyone saw the articles. You think we didn't recognize you in the photo? We understand how you make your money. So tell me, last night, what did he pay you for? Did he fuck you or did he just ask you to suck his dick?”

Jonas froze. His eyes widened, his fingers clenched on the edge of his keyboard. He remained silent, unable to formulate any response, so grotesque did the accusation seem to him. Mikkel had never gone so far in his fabrications.

“What are you talking about? What kind of bullshit are you making up now? Don't you have anything better to do with your life?”

“Bullshit? Really?” Mikkel flashes a triumphant smile and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Then explain this to me.”

He shoved the screen in front of Jonas's eyes. Jonas nearly choked on his own saliva, gasping in surprise. The screen displayed an article published in one of France's biggest celebrity magazines, one of those scandal-hungry rags that was anything but journalism. The headline was provocative and sent a chill down Jonas's spine.

“Shockwaves in the peloton: Tadej Pogačar, world number one, gay? The Slovenian star's sexual orientation revealed?”

Just below, a full-page photo. It shows Tadej Pogačar, recognizable despite the night, his arms firmly wrapped around another man's waist, his face nestled in the crook of his neck. Jonas feels his stomach churn. His breath catches in his throat. It can't be... It's him. It's Jonas, frozen in this image, his body pressed against Tadej Pogačar.  Damn it, the completely drunk young man Jonas saw the night before is  the current best cyclist.

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Jonas can hardly believe his eyes as he zooms in on the photo, as if to check one last time that he isn't hallucinating. But no, his imagination isn't playing tricks on him. The young man who was completely drunk the night before, the one who clung to him asking him to wait for his driver to arrive, is none other than Tadej Pogačar, the Slovenian world cycling star.

“Don't look so surprised, you must have known who he was! I hope he at least fucked you well and paid you well!”

Mikkel's voice brought him back to reality with a jolt. Jonas almost jumped, his mind having disconnected for a few seconds, frozen on the photo with his eyes wide open. He looked up, still dazed, as Mikkel snatched his phone away with a sharp movement, as if to prevent him from lingering any longer on the article.
Damn it... Because of this photo and this bullshit printed in capital letters, everyone now believes that Jonas slept with a cyclist, and not just any cyclist... the world number one. Jonas didn't recognize him. Just the day before, he had seen Tadej as just another guy who couldn't hold his alcohol, a stranger lost in the night in Nice. He never imagined that this drifting guy would become the centerpiece of a scandal that would tarnish him.

Jonas isn't interested in cycling at all. The exploits, the races, the yellow jerseys, it's all over his head. But despite his lack of interest, the name Tadej is still familiar to him. Wout Van Aert, his best friend, whom he met during a school exchange a few years ago, talked about him constantly. Wout lived for this sport and could spend hours telling him about the stages of the Tour de France, the big races, team strategies, and the faces of the champions. Jonas, who had never shared this passion, listened nonetheless, amused by his friend's enthusiasm. He loved the sparkle in his eyes whenever he talked about it. That's how he remembered the name Pogačar, repeated over and over again by Wout. But he never thought he would meet him in person, let alone in such circumstances. 

“But I don't know, I don't know him!” Jonas finally stammered, his voice choked with emotion.

His words fell on deaf ears, immediately drowned out by the laughter of Mikkel, Andreas, and Arthur. They doubled over, their snickers echoing through the room like invisible blades piercing him. Jonas swallowed hard. He already knew they wouldn't believe him, and part of him wasn't even surprised anymore. “Yeah, right! You think we're going to buy that?” Mikkel sneered. “At least now we know how you get such good grades. No need to study when you know how to sleep one's way to the top !”

The laughter grows louder. Jonas feels a burning heat wash over his face. His hands tremble on his computer, which he no longer dares to look at, and his heart is pounding so hard that he fears the whole class can hear it.

Jonas's gaze darkens as he clenches his fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He has worked hard to get where he is, never letting up in his efforts. He has approached every subject and every exercise with relentless discipline. He spent entire nights revising, redoubling his efforts to master English to perfection and learn French. And most of the time, his hard work paid off: he quickly rose to the top of his class, unlike Mikkel, who was content with his arrogance and natural gifts. As a daddy's boy, Jonas quickly understood what Mikkel was like. He was the kind of boy who never had to lift a finger to get what he wanted. His father, at the head of a colossal fortune, opened every door with a simple snap of his fingers, and Mikkel had only to let himself be carried along by this inherited comfort. At university, he never did anything serious: he spent his days loafing around, hanging out with friends who were just like him, or talking about projects he had neither the will nor the ability to pursue. He didn't believe in journalism for a second, and Jonas quickly realized that Mikkel had neither the talent, the passion, nor even the desire to learn. He wasn't interested in that world. And yet Jonas knew bitterly that Mikkel's last name would be enough to open doors to prestigious jobs and dream opportunities, while he, who worked hard and was eager to prove his worth, would have to fight for the slightest recognition.

So no, this guy has no right to insinuate that he cheated, or worse, that he slept his way to his results. Not when Jonas sacrificed his free time, his sleep, and part of his youth to earn his place here.

And Jonas doesn't understand why this guy seems to take such pleasure in making his life here hell. Doesn't Mikkel have anything better to do than ruin every single day of Jonas's life? Why can't he just leave him alone?

“Fuck you,” he spits out in a low, harsh voice. “‘Me, it 's not my dad who paid for me to be accepted here!’”

He gives Mikkel a dark glance, one of those looks he usually keeps to himself, but  which he can no longer contain. Then, with a hasty gesture, he closes his laptop, slips his things into his bag, and stands up. Without waiting, he crosses the lecture hall, his footsteps echoing in the heavy silence that Mikkel and his friends' mocking laughter pierces like shards of glass. Around him, eyes rest on him, heavy, contemptuous, or simply curious, but all focused on him like a burning spotlight. So much for philosophy, so much for the class he'll have to make up later. He doesn't have the strength to stay here another minute, not under the weight of those judgmental eyes.

In the hallway, the feeling repeats itself. Everywhere he goes, Jonas feels pairs of eyes turning in his direction. Whispers, phones pulled out hastily, stifled smiles... Every detail confirms what he fears: the article has already circulated throughout the university. And he is convinced that Mikkel is not a stranger to it. He probably helped spread the news with venomous pleasure. Ruining Jonas's life is what he does best, anyway.

Jonas bites his lower lip to hold back the tears that threaten to spill out. It's a waking nightmare. He hates being the center of attention more than anything, and now he feels trapped under a harsh spotlight, unable to escape. With hurried steps, almost as if fleeing, he pushes open the door of the first bathroom he finds and locks himself inside. The click of the lock sounds like a small relief. His legs are shaking, and he leans against the cold wall and slides to the floor.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. But the more he tries to regain control, the more reality imposes itself on him: he appears with his face uncovered on the front page of one of France's biggest tabloid magazines. The photo is circulating everywhere, and he is no longer an anonymous student. Overcome with painful curiosity, he takes out his phone, opens the search bar, and types in the name Tadej Pogačar. The result is immediate and cruel: not one article appears, but dozens, all accompanied by the same photo, all headlining the same scandal. The news has spread throughout Slovenia, undoubtedly throughout Europe, perhaps even throughout the world.

“Shit,” Jonas whispers in a muffled groan.

He buries his face in his hands, breathing heavily. They're just photos, and yet they're enough to turn his life upside down. His entire university now thinks he's sleeping with Tadej Pogačar for money, and Jonas is convinced that Mikkel will take great pleasure in going even further, claiming that he does the same with his professors to pass his classes. Everything he has built, everything he has endured to prove his worth, risks being swept away in an instant by a rumor he did not choose and that will not let him go.

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Jonas glances quickly at his watch and smiles when he sees that his shift is finally coming to an end. Just another half hour, and he can go home, lock himself in his cramped apartment, and try to forget this hellish day. He had tried hard to attend all his classes, despite the suffocating weight of stares and whispers. Jonas was used to it, in a way, but today was even worse than usual. All day long, he had endured the mockery, the stifled laughter, the sly questions circulating from one group to another. He forced himself not to show anything, to remain impassive, as if nothing affected him. But behind that mask, he was just a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest breath.
“How much does he pay you?” “Did he really fuck you?” “Is he really gay?” “Is he a good fuck?” These sentences, repeated over and over again, echoed in his mind all day long. He ignored them as much as he could, but he felt himself falter when he saw that they had even made their way onto his Instagram account.

His phone vibrated incessantly, filled with notifications, anonymous messages, insults, and crude insinuations. Jonas didn’t hesitate for a second: he locked his account. His phone vibrated incessantly, filled with notifications, anonymous messages, insults, and crude insinuations. Jonas didn't hesitate for a second: he locked his account and disabled alerts, as if to erect a fragile barrier between himself and this world that had become hostile. All this because of a drunk guy who couldn't stand up straight and had the misfortune of putting his hands on him at the worst possible moment. Why couldn't Tadej Pogačar, like all other stars of his stature, travel with bodyguards or an escort? Why did it have to be a simple waiter who had to bear his weight and, by extension, the full weight of the scandal?

Jonas reassures himself somewhat by noting that, for the moment, the news has not spread beyond the doors of the bar where he works. No colleague or regular customer has mentioned the affair. No one has come up to him with a comment, not a word, not a smirk. Perhaps they haven't read the articles, or perhaps they have had the decency to pretend they haven't. Jonas clings to this illusion, this fragile respite.

“Hello, a Coke, please.”

A customer's voice abruptly pulls him out of his thoughts. Jonas raises his head, ready to respond with the mechanical smile he gives out all evening long. He immediately notices the strong accent, different from the one he has become accustomed to in Provence. But the smile fades immediately when he meets the gaze of the man in front of him. His features freeze, his fists clench under the counter. He recognizes him instantly. His stomach knots, anger rising in him like a wave.
What the hell is he doing here?

Why did this asshole come back here, to this bar, when there are dozens of others throughout the city? And surely even more in Monaco, just a few miles away. Why did the world's number one cyclist have to choose this one, tonight?

“My shift is over. Wait for my colleague to replace me,” Jonas replies in a dry voice, barely betraying the tremor running through it.

His French, usually fluent despite his Danish accent, falters slightly. He realizes this too late. His fingernails dig into the palm of his hand to stop him from stammering further. He refuses to show weakness in front of Tadej Pogačar. Number one or not, international star or not, he has no intention of bowing down to the jerk who ruined his reputation. Mikkel made his life hell, but Jonas refuses to let this cyclist do the same.

“I've known waiters who were more courteous,” Tadej replies with feigned calm, in English this time.

The Slovenian did not continue in French, a sign that he is not comfortable enough to continue the conversation.

 “But tell me, if you're done, what are you still doing behind the counter? Aren't you in a hurry to get home?”

Jonas opens his mouth, ready to reply, but the words escape him. Nothing credible comes to mind. His thoughts become confused, collide. He finds himself trapped, as if cornered by an invisible force. The smile that stretches across Tadej's lips is a smile of victory, that of a man who understands he has gained the upper hand, and Jonas glares at him.

"Lack of courtesy and refusal to serve a customer... I could get you fired for that, you know,“ he continues, his voice calm but sharp. ”Especially if I reveal my identity to your boss. I could even give you some disastrous publicity. What do you think, would he fire you on the spot, or would he wait until tomorrow night?"

What an asshole, Jonas thinks silently, his jaw clenched. An arrogant starlet playing on his fame, exactly the kind of person he hates. He would be a perfect ally for Mikkel. How can Wout admire this pretentious cyclist...

Jonas glares at the cyclist, but bites his lower lip to hold back the words that are burning to come out. Everything in him is screaming at him to tell him to go to hell. But he knows he can't. He hates to admit it, but Pogačar is right: his boss wouldn't think twice about firing him if he found out he dared to disrespect a customer, let alone a celebrity who could cause very bad publicity. Jonas is stuck, and he feels it in every fiber of his being. He has no choice but to serve his drink.

“That'll be three euros, how would you like to pay?” he grinds out, each word wrung out like a reluctant concession.

Instead of answering, Tadej hands him a hundred-euro bill across the counter.

“Keep the change.”

Jonas raises an eyebrow, taken aback by the gesture. He wasn't expecting that. A hundred euros is nothing to Tadej, a mere pittance. But for him, it's a huge sum. Almost an entire night's wages paid in one go. With any other customer, Jonas would have accepted without hesitation. But not with him. Not after what he had gone through because of him. His pride refused. His anger refused.

This money isn't generosity, it's a disguised insult, a way of buying his silence, his docility. And a hundred euros certainly isn't enough to compensate for the hell he's been through in the last twenty-four hours.

“I don't need your money. Keep it,” Jonas spits out in an icy voice.

“No, I insist, take it,” Tadej replies in a falsely detached tone.

The Slovenian pushes the bill a little closer to Jonas, as if he wants to impose his will with a simple gesture. But Jonas refuses to give in. He plunges a firm hand into the pocket of his apron, pulls out a small pile of coins and a few neatly folded bills, then places the exact change in front of him. Ninety-seven euros and a few cents lined up precisely, like an invisible barrier between them. He won't take a penny more. Not from this guy.

“And I'm telling you I don't need it,” he replies coldly, each syllable pronounced with sharp clarity. “I don't think it's that hard to understand. Is there anything else you want, or can I get back to work?”

A tense silence falls between them. Jonas notices Pogačar's slight frown, surprised by the tone used, perhaps even unsettled. His lips part, but no words come out, and Jonas concludes that he has nothing more to ask. Without another glance, he turns away slightly, ready to serve another customer. However, Tadej's voice rings out at the last second.

“Uh, wait!”

Jonas sighs inwardly, but his face remains impassive. His clear eyes stare at him with icy neutrality, the only weapon he has left in this unequal power struggle. He has no trust in this guy, and he knows that one wrong word could jeopardize his job.

“I'm listening,” he says in a measured tone.

“What's your name?”

Jonas raises an eyebrow, looking incredulous. The question annoys him as much as it surprises him. Why does this cyclist, number one in the world, want to know his first name? For what purpose? To add him to his list of one-night stands? To laugh at him with his friends later? To fuel the rumors that are already spreading everywhere?

“I don't think that's any of your business,” he replies curtly. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other things to do.”

He immediately notices that the small, sardonic smile that had been playing on Tadej's lips for several minutes disappears. A look of surprise flashes across his eyes, as if he is not used to being met with such firm resistance. Jonas feels a spark of cold satisfaction run through him. A thin, discreet but deliberate snicker escaped him. Of course. Pogačar must no longer be used to being told no. He was probably used to everyone bowing down to him, rushing to please him, to satisfy his every whim.

“But that's not fair!” protests Tadej, with an almost childish pout. “You know mine, but I don't know yours!”

What a pain in the neck, thinks Jonas, gritting his teeth. He feels irritation boiling up inside him. He has no desire to play this little game. Every word exchanged makes him feel like he's sinking deeper into a situation he can't get out of. And yet, an idea crosses his mind, as sudden as it is sneaky. An idea he would probably never have had under other circumstances, but which he welcomes this time with a touch of cynicism. It's not right, no, and it's not like him. But maybe that's exactly what Pogačar deserves. After all, he didn't hesitate to threaten to get him fired.

"It's sad, huh... but if it's really company you're looking for, I can also scream that Tadej Pogačar, the best cyclist in the world, a multimillionaire, is sitting at the bar and feeling lonely. How many people do you think will rush over to your table?" Jonas asks, his voice low but sharp, his gaze hard, with a glint of defiance that is unlike him. 

He points his chin toward a man in his fifties sitting two tables away. His shirt is stained with wine, his face is puffy and red, he has three days' worth of greasy stubble, and his glassy eyes are fixed on his glass. His thick fingers tap nervously on the sticky wood, and every night he ends up slumped in this bar, reeking of alcohol and cold sweat. Jonas knows all too well how repulsive he is: he has already tried several times to grab him, taking advantage of a moment behind the counter to place his heavy hand on his hip, or even lower, his fingers daring to close around his bottom. Each time, Jonas had pushed him away, gritting his teeth, but the obscene insinuations had never stopped. And now, tonight, his troubled gaze rests insistently on them.

“Look at that guy over there who's already staring at you. I'm sure he'd love to meet you! Young men are obviously his type!”

Tadej grimaces when he sees him, his features immediately tensing up. He looks away, disgusted by the mere idea of attracting the attention of this client with his sordid intentions.

“You wouldn't do that, would you?” he whispers hesitantly, as if trying to convince himself that Jonas wouldn't go that far.

The Slovenian's mask of confidence suddenly cracks. His eyes widen slightly, as if the idea has just hit him with full force. Jonas senses this micro-vacuum, this moment when the man in front of him is no longer the arrogant star who was leading the game, but a young guy suddenly aware of his vulnerability. And Jonas feels a strange satisfaction. For the first time since their exchange, he has managed to unsettle him, to silence him. A tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless. Jonas one, Tadej zero! 

It's not hard to understand what has just worried Pogačar. Going out alone, without bodyguards, without anyone to filter out the curious, in a neighborhood of Nice that is not the safest...  He is young, famous, a millionaire, and everyone knows that an isolated celebrity is easy prey. All it takes is a few overly insistent fans, an intrusive photographer, or the wrong person at the wrong time to turn a mundane outing into a nightmare. Jonas knows this, and he guesses that Tadej has just thought of it too.

“It depends,” he adds, staring intently at the cyclist. “Leave me alone and I'll keep quiet.”

He doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is firm, clear, and uncompromising. For the first time, Pogačar simply nods, unable to respond otherwise. And Jonas, inwardly, rejoices. This time, he has had the last word, and he savors this reversal of roles as revenge for the humiliations of the day.

Yet, as he looks away, he also knows that he will never carry out his threat. He is not capable of it. Although he spoke harshly, he would never willingly put anyone in such a position, not even himself. He reluctantly admits to himself that behind his haughty demeanor, this boy may not be all bad. He is arrogant, yes, and as annoying as can be, but Jonas glimpses a flaw, a fragility that the other is trying to hide. The thought makes his chest tighten a little, and he almost hates the idea of feeling compassion for the person who ruined his day.
He turns away, walking toward a new customer who has just sat down at the bar. But at the last moment, he pivots slightly, his eyes meeting Tadej's again.

“By the way, Jonas,” he says with cold irony. “But I don't think this information will be of any use to you, as I have no intention of seeing you again.”

He catches the slight smile that appears on the cyclist's lips, a smile that is no longer mocking, almost... sincere. Jonas rolls his eyes in annoyance, as if to chase away this disturbing impression. Then he resolutely turns his back on him, resuming his service as if nothing had happened. But deep down, the sparkle of that smile refuses to disappear so easily.

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“Jonas!”

Jonas jumps violently when he hears his name. His phone almost slips from his hands, but he catches it just in time, his heart beating faster than it should. He immediately turns toward the source of the voice, and a groan of exasperation escapes him when he sees Tadej Pogačar. The Slovenian was standing a few feet away from him, leaning against a wall, the hood of what was surely an expensive sweatshirt pulled down over his head, partially concealing his features. Even half-hidden, his insolent smile was enough to identify him easily. Jonas sighed heavily, unable to believe that he had to run into this guy again tonight.

He was sure he had made himself clear. His English was clear, his tone uncompromising. There was no chance that Pogačar had misunderstood the message. Jonas had told him he didn't want to see him anymore. Period. So why was he still there, standing in his way as if nothing had happened? And above all, why had he left the bar only to come back and find him here, when Jonas had clearly seen him leave barely ten minutes ago?

“I told you I didn't want to see you anymore,” he growls icily.

“I know, I heard you,” Tadej replies mischievously, his smile widening as if he were revelling in the annoyance he was causing.

“So what the hell are you still doing here? What part of my sentence wasn't clear enough?”

“None,” replies the Slovenian, unperturbed. “You just weren't very convincing.”

Jonas rolls his eyes in exasperation. This guy's arrogance is beyond belief. And now he's coming toward him, each step punctuated by that same imperturbable smile, as if he's deliberately trying to test his limits. Jonas can't decide whether to believe he's completely stupid or openly mocking him. Either way, he wants nothing to do with him.

“What do you want?” he blurts out curtly.

“Are you walking home?”

Jonas exhales loudly, unable to contain his annoyance. Pogačar never answers directly, always with a pirouette, a question for a question. And the worst part is that he seems to enjoy pushing him to his limits. Jonas, determined not to give in, chooses to respond in the same tone.

“And why? Are you interested in how I'm getting home?”

“Maybe,” Tadej replies with a slight shrug. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“Neither did you,” Jonas replies, running out of patience. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm exhausted and would like to go home.”

“I have my car. I can bring you home if you want.”

Jonas stops, eyebrows arched, staring at the cyclist with an expression of bewilderment and mistrust. Is this a joke? Another provocation? Or is he serious? He can't read his intentions. Why would a sports star, surrounded by agents, sponsors, and journalists, waste his time giving a ride home to an ordinary student, a waiter who is just trying to survive each day? None of it makes sense, and Jonas refuses to trust him.

“No thanks, I'm fine. My parents always told me never to get into a stranger's car.”

The retort brings a thin smile to his face, but it quickly fades when Pogačar replies immediately, as always.

“You know my name and my job. Technically, I'm not that much of a stranger.”

Jonas growls, exasperated. Every time he thinks he has the upper hand, Tadej finds a response, as if refusing to let him regain the advantage. It's unbearable. And yet, he can't help but notice this persistence, this stubborn way he has of staying, of trying to continue the conversation when he could have left long ago.

“Come on, you look cold too,” insists Tadej, his voice softer than before. “I can take you back. It’ll save you the walk.”

Jonas feels his throat tighten. Mistrust mixes with something more diffuse, a feeling of unease that he doesn't want to analyze. He clenches his fists in his pockets to stop himself from responding too quickly. Why is this guy insisting so much? What is he really after?

Jonas has to admit that Tadej isn't wrong. Although he's used to the Danish cold, the temperatures at the beginning of October are biting and the humidity is omnipresent, and despite his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, he feels the cold penetrating the fabric, sliding down his arms and biting his skin. His shoulders hunch under the icy bite of the air, his steps become heavier, and he finds himself shivering. The proposal, absurd as it may be, has something tempting about it. Jonas is exhausted. He has no desire to walk twenty minutes through the deserted, freezing streets of Nice, especially after such a trying day.

For a fleeting but real moment, the urge to give in overcomes his mistrust. A brief moment of carelessness, a slightly awkward resilience, and he shyly nods his head.

The radiant smile Tadej gives him in return is disarming, almost childlike, and Jonas immediately looks away, annoyed at feeling even slightly influenced by such a banal expression.

“I promise, I won't try to kidnap you,” Tadej chuckles.

“And that's supposed to be reassuring?” Jonas whispers bitterly as he follows the Slovenian.  “

'I'll remind you that I'm an international star, my every move is watched all day long. If I wanted to strangle you, believe me, it would make the headlines!”

“A pretentious starlet, yes!” Jonas retorts, rolling his eyes. “So famous that I didn't even recognize you!” 

Tadej shrugs, feigning offense. “It's not my fault if you're sorely lacking in culture!”

Jonas crosses his arms, a wry smile on his lips. “Yeah, you're probably right... You're probably the king of annoying people. Are you happy now?”

“A king? No...” Tadej flashes a cheeky smile. “Let's just say the best cyclist of all time. And, to top it all off, a handsome, generous, and helpful guy.”

Jonas rolls his eyes, lost in thought. What an unbearable guy.

“With a head like that, I still wonder how your bike can move under your weight!” he says, half annoyed, half amused. “So, is your offer still on, or would you rather we camp here all night?”

Tadej bursts out laughing, shakes his head, and replies: “I'm faster than all my competitors, big head or not! Come on, I'm a man of my word. I'll take you back.”

Tadej motions for him to follow him, and Jonas does so, suppressing his urge to throttle this pretentious guy. He carefully pulls the hood of his coat over his head, hiding his face as much as possible. Every step he takes behind him is a contradiction: he doesn't want this closeness, he doesn't want this journey, but he prefers it to the cold that pierces him. Yet a dull fear remains; the fear that a lens will pop out of the shadows again, that another compromising photo will circulate and further destroy the fragile reputation he is trying to preserve. So he takes precautions, as if the fabric on his head could immunize him against the cruelty of the outside world.

They walk a few meters down the alley, and Jonas feels his unease grow as they approach the car. When he finally stops in front of the vehicle, his eyes widen despite himself. A Porsche Cayenne, gleaming under the neon lights of the street, with smooth, arrogant lines. Jonas suddenly feels ridiculous in his worn shoes and tired coat, as if he has no right to set foot in such a machine. A mixture of envy, embarrassment, and anger tightens his throat: envy because this luxury is a cruel reminder of what he will probably never have, embarrassment because he is not used to rubbing shoulders with this world, and anger because he does not understand why Pogačar insists on involving him in his life.
He finally settles into the passenger seat, stiff and uncomfortable, wondering what possessed him to accept. His pride screams that he should have said no, that this decision is a sign of weakness. Everything in him cries out that he has no business being here, that this is not his place.

Jonas gives him his address in a curt voice, and Tadej calmly enters it into the car's state-of-the-art GPS. Every beep, every cold light on the dashboard contrasts with the simplicity of Jonas's life.

“The windows are tinted, you can take off your hood if you want,” Tadej says, having already removed his own.

Jonas hesitates, his gaze drifting toward the window. He glances quickly at the dark street, making sure there's no one around, no passersby, no flashes hidden in the shadows. Then, reluctantly, he slowly pushes his hood back. He hates the feeling of revealing himself, even in the confined privacy of the car.

“I hope you're a good driver and you're not going to kill us,” he mutters, almost in spite of himself.

“Trust me,” Tadej replies lightly, as if it were all a game.

The engine purrs, and the car pulls away slowly. Jonas sinks into his seat, resting his head against the cold window. The streets roll by in the night, lit intermittently by streetlights. A heavy, oppressive silence descends. Neither of them speaks, and Jonas wonders why he is here, why he gave in. With every passing second, it becomes more and more obvious: he has done something crazy. Getting into a stranger's car in the middle of the night... His mother would have a heart attack if she found out.

His unease grows, like a knot in his stomach. To keep his hands busy, he takes out his phone and the screen lights up, revealing a series of missed calls. His parents. And also Wout. His best friend. The number of messages from the latter is impressive, almost alarming. Jonas lets out a curse in Danish, too tired to hide his frustration. It all piles up: the cold, the fatigue, the fear, the mockery, and now the worry of having to answer his family.

{From Wout}
“Yo Jonas, can you call me back please? It's important.”

{From Wout}
“Jonas, answer me please!”

{From Wout}
“Hellooo! Are you going to answer yes or no?”

{From Wout}
“Jonas, pick up your damn phone, for fuck's sake!”

{From Wout}
"No, seriously, answer! I just saw some photos circulating on Instagram... What the hell are you doing with Tadej Pogačar??? And is it true what they say, are you sleeping with him?"

{From Wout}
“Did you ask him for an autograph?”

{From Wout}
"Okay, you must be asleep, but please call me back, you have to explain.
And remember to call your mom back, she almost had a heart attack at the supermarket when she saw you on the cover of the gossip magazines!"

{From Wout}
"Take care of you, call me if you need, love you :)"

A nightmare. The photos had crossed borders, appeared on the screens of his loved ones, all the way to the small Danish town where he grew up. His family had seen them. His mother. And Wout too. Jonas felt his stomach twist as he imagined their faces, their thoughts. What will they think of him? What will they think of this story he never wanted?

{To Wout}

“I was working, I couldn't answer, sorry. The photos aren't what you think they are. But I'll call you tomorrow and explain everything.”

Jonas pressed send, his heart heavy, before abruptly putting his phone away. His fingers were still shaking, and he let out a curse in Danish, his jaw clenched. It was all too much for him. This was no longer a student rumor or hallway gossip: his entire life had just been exposed, distorted, sullied.

“Are you okay?”

Tadej's voice abruptly pulls him out of his thoughts. Jonas turns to him, and immediately feels anger wash over him. His gaze hardens. He can no longer contain the overflow that has been bubbling inside him since morning. After all, all of this is partly his fault.

“No, I'm not okay!” he explodes, unable to hold back his words. “And it's your fault! Couldn't you have done what all the stars do and gone out with bodyguards, who would have waited patiently with you, instead of asking me? Or, more simply, couldn't you have avoided getting drunk? That would have solved the problem!”

His fists clench on his knees, his words spewing out unfiltered, spat out like stones he had kept in his chest for too long.

"No, but do you realize? Because of you, everyone thinks we're sleeping together! Of course, I'm sure you don't care! It won't change a thing in your perfect little celebrity life. You'll continue to drive around in your expensive cars and smile for the cameras. But what about me?"

His voice breaks slightly, but he continues, driven by an anger he can no longer contain.

“It ruined my reputation! It's already hell over there, but now... All day long, I've been insulted and called all sorts of names. Because of you, my whole university sees me as a whore. They think I sleep around to get ahead! Do you realize what that means to me? Do you even realize what you've done to me?”

Jonas isn't the type to lose his temper. Usually, he keeps everything to himself, takes it on the chin, stays silent. But this time, he no longer has the strength to hold back. The words he has kept silent all day finally explode, hurtful, brutal, fueled by fatigue and humiliation. And facing him, Tadej's silence further amplifies his own turmoil.

“I... I'm sorry,” the Slovenian finally whispers, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“Yeah, well, you should be!” Jonas spits, his gaze burning.

He immediately turns his head away, unable to look any longer at the face of the man he holds responsible for his ordeal. His heart is beating too fast, his hands are still shaking, but a strange relief washes over him nonetheless: at least he said what was on his mind.

Jonas takes the time to breathe in deeply, his lungs filling with cold, metallic air, then exhales slowly, as if to release a weight. He closes his eyes briefly, his forehead pressed against the window, and when he opens them again, he notices that Tadej's expression has changed. The mischievous little smile he had been wearing since the beginning of the journey has faded. His lips are now pressed together, and his slightly furrowed brow gives him an unusually serious look.

“No, I... I'm really sorry,” he finally said, his voice lower, almost hesitant.

“I didn't think anyone would recognize me, or that we'd be photographed like that. And I... I never wanted you to be exposed like this.”

Jonas lets out an ironic sigh, a joyless laugh, and his words echo in the cabin.

" You could have thought about that before getting drunk," he retorts coldly.

“I know...” admits Tadej, his gaze wandering for a moment before returning to him. “It was stupid. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry.”

Some of the Slovenian's insolent confidence has vanished. Now he no longer looks like the arrogant star who revels in his fame, but simply like a young man in his twenties, full of carefree abandon, overwhelmed by his own mistakes. Jonas, who was expecting to hear only superficial apologies or empty phrases, is surprised by this tone, which is more sincere, almost fragile. He would never have believed him capable of this. He thought this guy didn't care about the consequences, that his actions, his excesses, his whims would only affect himself. But what he sees in his eyes seems different: a form of genuine regret, a silent acknowledgment of the harm caused.

It doesn't change anything. The insults he had to endure, the shame, the heavy stares in the college hallways... nothing can be erased with a simple word. Yet, despite himself, Jonas feels a crack opening in his anger. Something in him is touched by his apology, even if he refuses to admit it.

“I... if it's any consolation, I can assure you that this photo has screwed me over too...” whispers Tadej, his voice low and hesitant.

Jonas sneers joylessly, his gaze hardening. "Oh, really? Well, I'm deeply sorry for you. You who already have everything... it must have been unbearable. Let me guess: your manager prepared a little press release for you, you memorized it, you recited it with your pretty smile, and then you went back to your perfect life as if nothing had happened. No, honestly, I sympathize."

The words hit hard, sharp, and Tadej clenches his jaw. Clearly, Jonas doesn't think for a second that the situation was difficult for him to deal with too.

“Jonas... I ride for UAE, I...” he begins.

But Jonas interrupts him immediately, his voice thick with bitterness. “Oh, so what? Are they angry? Are they going to deprive you of a little end-of-year bonus?”

Tadej sighs and lowers his eyes for a moment. The Dane clearly doesn't make the connection; he doesn't understand what rumors about the sexuality of the leading rider of a team financed by the United Arab Emirates mean. 

He finally shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. "You know what... forget it. I'm not going to get into that. But Jonas, I... I'm really sorry. I had no intention of getting you into trouble."
Jonas simply nods, a discreet, almost imperceptible gesture, but enough to show that he has heard him. Tadej seems to understand that Jonas is not in the mood to continue the conversation.

So silence falls back into the car. A heavy silence, but more peaceful than before, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the headlights sweeping across the sleeping facades.

When they finally arrive at Jonas's building, he hurriedly gets out of his seat. He is about to get out, relieved to be back in his own space, but suddenly a hand closes around his wrist. Jonas flinched, taken aback by the contact. Tadej's warm, tanned fingers touched his pale skin, and an uncontrollable shiver ran down his spine. He pulled away immediately, more abruptly than he would have liked, as if to erase the invisible trace left by the gesture.

“Wait.”

Jonas freezes mid-motion, his hand on the door handle. “Wait for what?” he says curtly, suspiciously.

“Two seconds.”

Tadej leans toward the glove compartment and pulls out a pen and a small notebook, its dog-eared cover evidence of frequent use. Jonas watches him quickly write down a few numbers, intrigued despite himself. The Slovenian then tears out the page and hands it to him. Jonas takes it with his fingertips, his brow furrowed.

“It's my number,” Tadej says simply. “Call me if you need anything.”

Jonas looks up at him, his expression hardening again. “And why would I want to call you?”

 “I... I don't know,” he admits, almost awkwardly. “But if you ever need it... in regards to this whole thing, you'll have it.”

Jonas remains motionless for a moment, staring at the folded piece of paper between his fingers. Everything in him screams to crumple it up and throw it away, to not give it any importance.

Yet he doesn't. And when he finally looks up, a slight but irrepressible smile appears on his lips.  A smile he can't control, one he hates to feel coming on, but which appears despite himself. He immediately pulls himself together, forcing himself to regain a neutral expression, refusing to let on that he is touched by this unexpected gesture. He doesn't want to give Tadej that satisfaction, not after spending the whole day dealing with the consequences of this encounter.

“You do realize that you just gave your number to a guy you barely know, and that I could do absolutely anything I want with it?” Jonas says, his tone deliberately curt, as if to test his reaction.

“Yeah, but you won't,” Tadej replies with quiet, almost natural confidence.

Jonas raised an eyebrow, slightly unsettled by the certainty he saw in his eyes. “And how can you be so sure?”

“Earlier, you could have shouted in front of everyone who I was,” replied the Slovenian without hesitation. "But you didn't. I gather that it's not your style to do that kind of dirty trick. "

Jonas remains silent for a few seconds, his gaze fixed on him. He finally nods. He has to admit that he's right. It's not his style to play with other people's reputations, even someone like him. He would never have given out Pogačar's phone number, nor would he have shouted his identity in a bar to put him in danger. That's not how he operates. And he has no intention of using that number anyway. He already knows he'll never dial those digits. Tadej Pogačar isn't who he'll call if a problem arises.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says simply, by way of goodbye. His voice is brief, but sincere despite himself.

He opens the door and gets out of the car, eager to end this strange moment. But before driving off, Tadej raises his hand and gives him a little wave accompanied by a bright smile. Jonas immediately feels his cheeks flush, his body betraying him without him understanding why. Unnerved, he looks away and walks quickly toward his building, as if to erase the unexpected thrill that runs through him.

He climbs the four flights of stairs on foot, his breath short more from tension than fatigue. When he reaches his door, he reaches into his coat pocket to take out his keys. His fingers then encounter something else. Jonas frowns and pulls out a small pile of carefully folded bills and a piece of paper. Ninety-seven euros. The tip the Slovenian had tried to impose on him. Jonas sighs, recognizing the stubbornness behind this gesture.

“Hey, I'm a stubborn guy ;)” he reads, scribbled hastily on the piece of paper.

He stands motionless on the landing for a moment, keys in one hand, bills and paper in the other, torn between anger and a more vague feeling he refuses to name. Then he enters his silent apartment. He wearily puts down his things, but still keeps the bills clenched in his palm. He finally heads to his bedroom and opens the drawer of his nightstand. The ninety-seven euros disappear inside. He didn't want this money, and he still doesn't. But he knows that one day, perhaps, he might need it. Not because he wants it, but because he needs it. So he keeps it, like a resource he forbids himself to use except in cases of extreme emergency.

As for the piece of paper... Jonas unfolds it one last time. The numbers, written in quick but neat handwriting, seem to almost defy him. It's ridiculous to keep it. He'll never call. And even if he did, he's sure Tadej wouldn't answer. Why would a celebrity of his stature waste time on him, an ordinary student, invisible among thousands of others?

He raises his hand to throw the paper in the trash, but his gesture stops mid-air. Something inside him resists. He doesn't understand why. His mind screams to get rid of it, but his hand refuses to obey. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he retraces his steps and places the small piece of paper on the nightstand.
Then, without another thought, Jonas slips under the covers. Heavy fatigue immediately envelops him, and his eyelids close. But in the silence of his room, his last memory before falling asleep is neither the insults of the day nor the accumulated anger... it is the bright smile of Tadej Pogačar, stuck in his mind like a splinter that cannot be removed.

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Chapter Text

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Tadej pushes open the glass doors of the small bar in Nice and walks inside with measured steps, careful not to attract attention. The hood of his sweatshirt pulled down over his head hides part of his face, and he keeps his head down, preferring to remain inconspicuous. He has no desire to be recognized, not tonight, not in such an ordinary place. The murmur of conversation, the slightly too loud laughter of the customers, and the background music cover his footsteps as he makes his way to an empty table in a remote corner of the room. He sits down, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets, as if to blend into the background.

His gaze quickly scans the room, and it lights up when he sees the reason he came back here. Jonas is there, notebook and pen in hand, taking the order of a group sitting across from the bar. The Dane seems absorbed in his task, his hand moving quickly across the paper, his features closed in concentration. The bar is crowded tonight, and Tadej realizes he won't be able to approach him right away. But that suits him fine: he can observe him without being noticed, allowing himself a few stolen moments to contemplate the man who intrigues him so much.

His eyes first slide over his slender body, his discreet but naturally elegant silhouette. The slightly loose-fitting black T-shirt contrasts with the paleness of his skin, and the dark jeans that fit his long legs emphasize his slimness. On his feet, a pair of simple, worn white sneakers betray a daily life far removed from the luxury Tadej is accustomed to. This contrast fascinates him. Jonas is not ostentatious or pretentious: he is simply himself, and this sobriety attracts Tadej's gaze much more than he would have thought.

Then his attention drifts to his face. In the dim light of the bar, his features are softly outlined. High cheekbones, pale skin, and above all, slightly tousled blond hair, which Tadej can easily imagine running his fingers through. The urge is sudden and irrational: he wants to know if it's as soft as it looks. And as he catches himself thinking this, a simple, undeniable realization crosses his mind: he is cute. Really cute. Too cute for him to be content with just watching him from a distance.

“Hello, what can I get you?”

Jonas' voice, so close, pulls him out of his reverie. Lost in his thoughts, Tadej hadn't even noticed him approaching his table. He jumps, looks up, and lets out a gasp despite himself. Taken aback, he almost drops the little notebook he had mechanically taken out to give himself something to do.

“Tadej?” he whispers, still surprised. “But... what are you doing here?”

The Dane immediately frowned, visibly annoyed. 

“Nice to see you too. I came for a drink, can't you see?” replied Tadej with a cheeky smile.

"Yeah, right... except that in Nice, there are dozens of bars, and surely much better ones than this one! There are probably even better ones in Monaco."

“Maybe,” Tadej admits without flinching, “but the waiters here are particularly charming. And hey, you know a lot about me. Am I dealing with a fan?”

Jonas exhales loudly, and Tadej bursts out laughing when he sees the bright color rising to his cheeks. He hadn't expected that, but he was delighted by the effect. He felt a strange pride swelling within him at the thought of having managed to unsettle him. The small smile that appeared at the corner of his lips was anything but innocent: he savored this tiny victory, convinced that he had gained the upper hand.

But Jonas is quick to respond, his eyes lighting up with unexpected confidence. “I'm certainly not a fan, but most of the pretentious little jerks like you live over there!”

Tadej raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Oh, really?”

He can't believe it. Rarely does anyone dare to speak to him like that, let alone in such a mocking and cutting tone. And seeing him smile proudly, confidently, while he remains stupidly stunned, gives him a confusing feeling. Jonas has just reversed the balance of power in one sentence. And Tadej, far from being annoyed, finds himself troubled by this unexpected audacity.

“Well, have you suddenly lost your tongue?” Jonas continues, confident, his clear gaze fixed on his client for the evening. “Is the truth too painful to hear?”

Tadej chuckles, unable to suppress his amusement. Jonas has guts, he has to admit. Many would have lowered their eyes, backed down, or never dared to contradict him. He, on the other hand, is not easily impressed. It's rare, too rare. Since establishing himself as one of the best cyclists in the world, Tadej has seen people's behavior toward him change. Admiring glances, forced smiles, hollow compliments—all of this has become part of his daily life. Interactions have lost their naturalness, replaced by the hypocrisy of servile politeness. He knows it well: many of those who crowd around him today would not even speak to him if he were not number one in the world. This thought often disgusts him.

But Jonas... Jonas is different. He's not interested in prestige, achievements, or fame. On the contrary, he seems almost irritated by his presence. He doesn't try to flatter him or get close to him to gain anything. He contradicts him, teases him, and puts him in his place without hesitation. And as strange as it may seem, Tadej likes it. Maybe he likes it too much. 

“I'm not an asshole!” he retorts, feigning indignation.

Jonas raises an eyebrow, ironically. “No, you don't think so? Are you aware that you're one of the top five worst clients I've ever had? And you're not even fifth!"Tadej bursts out laughing, genuinely amused. “Oh, what an honor! Another top five, I'm almost as good as I am at cycling!”

He then notices a slight movement in Jonas: a slight biting of his lower lip, a sign of hesitation between annoyance and a smile. And the latter finally appears, discreet but unmistakable. Tadej is struck by it. This smile is much more beautiful than all the ones usually directed at him as a mere facade.

“With a little practice, you could even be number one,” Jonas replies, his voice tinged with restrained irony. “Come on, what would you like to drink?”

Tadej moistens his lips and takes a moment before answering. He could have ordered a beer, a cocktail, anything. But that's not what he came here for tonight. What he really wants is an exchange, proof that he matters a little, beyond his image as a star. So the words come out almost in spite of himself.

“But if the jerk customer came back here, it's to check on you. You didn't send me any messages. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Jonas shakes his head, annoyed. “Very funny. Do you have any more bullshit to tell me, or can I take your order and get back to work?”

“But I'm serious,” Tadej continues, and for the first time, there is no mockery in his tone. “I really wanted to know how you were doing.”

Jonas sighs, shrugging his shoulders as if to dismiss the argument. “Um... if you say so. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm a little busy right now.”

“That's okay,” Tadej insists, a mischievous gleam returning to his eyes. “I'll wait until you're done.”

“You're annoying,” Jonas grumbles, exasperated.

“I know,” Tadej replies with a provocative smile. “It's part of my charm.”

Jonas glares at him, but Tadej sees something else in his eyes, an almost imperceptible nuance that makes him want to smile even more.

“We must have different definitions of the word charm, but never mind. What can I get you while you wait?”

“A mango juice, please.”

Jonas nods before walking away, notebook in hand, and gives Tadej a slight smile as he passes. Nothing more. Just that little polite smile that's nothing personal. Then he turns away and hurries to another table, taking orders with the methodical seriousness of an exhausted but diligent waiter.

Tadej remains motionless, a twinge of disappointment tightening his chest. He didn't show it, his face remained impassive, but he is slightly offended that Jonas didn't believe his sincerity for a second. If he came back to this bar tonight, it wasn't by chance or for the simple pleasure of a drink. No, he came back to see him, to make sure he was okay. And even if Jonas thinks he's an arrogant jerk, he's not the complete asshole Jonas seems to imagine him to be. He genuinely cares about him, at least as much as he can after the storm he unwittingly unleashed.
Since that fateful night, he hadn't stopped thinking about Jonas's expression, his trembling voice in the car when he had broken down, pouring out all his anger. Those words had haunted him. He had felt responsible, guilty for upsetting a stranger's life over a night where he had drunk too much, laughed too much, ignored the consequences too much. It was stupid, and he sincerely regretted his actions. He was feeling bad, so the whole world could feel bad with him. But that photo, that scandal, he never wanted that. And it was just as stupid for Jonas as it was for him. That mistake could have cost him his job at UAE. His entourage took pleasure in reminding him of that.

And yet, as he watches Jonas moving from table to table, notebook in hand, his face occasionally lit up with a forced smile for impatient customers, Tadej feels his guilt fading. The Dane didn't seem upset, didn't seem disturbed as he had feared. He was holding up well, and that reassured Tadej more than he dared admit.

A few minutes passed, and Jonas finally returned to him, his tray balanced in one hand, his other hand holding the glass of juice. But just a few inches from his table, Tadej noticed the change. Jonas's discreet smile suddenly disappears, his face freezing as if struck by an invisible lightning bolt. His features close up, and for a second that seems to stretch out, he appears elsewhere, almost panicked.

Tadej sits up slightly, frowning. “Jonas, you...” he begins, worried.

“Tadej,” Jonas interrupts him hurriedly, his gaze shifting away. “Would you do me a favor?”

Surprised, Tadej nods immediately, trying to understand. “Uh... yeah, sure. But... what's going on? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Jonas replies, but his voice trembles slightly, and his fingers clenched on the tray betray the opposite. He sets the glass down on the table, his hand brushing Tadej's in an uncertain

gesture. “But I... can you be discreet, please? Make sure no one notices you.”

Tadej blinks, taken aback. What? Why? He doesn't have time to ask any more questions. Jonas has already turned his back on him and is striding away, almost running.

And that's when Tadej sees them. Three young men have just walked through the bar door. They laugh loudly and sit down at the back, opposite his table. Their attitude is relaxed, a little too theatrical, as if their mere presence is already trying to impose itself.

Tadej doesn't understand yet, but he guesses that this is no mere coincidence. Jonas didn't react like this without reason. A strange uneasiness settles in the Slovenian's chest. His fingers tighten around the glass he has just been served, and he watches Jonas walk away, more tense than ever.

<><><>

His fists clenched under the table, Tadej discreetly stares at Jonas, who crouches down to pick up the shards of glass scattered on the floor. Every movement of his hands seems measured and precise, but Tadej can see the stiffness in his gestures and the tension in his shoulders. Across the bar, three young men watch the scene, their muffled snickers sounding like silent slaps.

Tadej is too far away to hear their words clearly, but he doesn't need to strain his ears to understand. He has seen their petty smiles, their contemptuous glances, and he can easily guess the nature of the remarks they are making about him. Remarks he knows all too well, due to his now public status, but which he has never had to endure without protection. 
Anger boils up inside him, urging him to get up, stride across the room, and tell them exactly what he thinks. But every time he feels his body ready to spring into action, the image of Jonas's gaze comes back to him: that pleading look, that clear and unmistakable request to keep a low profile. Jonas didn't want him to interfere, didn't want him to make the situation worse. So Tadej held back, his muscles tense, his jaw clenched. He hunkered down in his chair, swallowing his pride and anger, his heart pounding with frustration.

Yet he almost gave in when one of the men, with a false air of innocence, deliberately moved his foot to the side. The gesture was discreet, almost mundane, but precise enough to block Jonas's path as he passed. The young man stumbled heavily, his balance suddenly thrown off. The glasses he was carrying slipped from his tray and shattered with a brutal crash, shards scattering across the floor like a rain of broken crystal. Jonas collapsed to his knees, breathless, his palms flat against the cold tile floor. A brief silence fell around the table, suspended, before a few muffled laughs pierced the air, mocking and cruel.

Already, Jonas was trying to get up, clumsily, his cheeks reddened as much by embarrassment as by the fall. He instinctively picked up the pieces, his fingers coming dangerously close to the sharp edges that glinted in the light. His shirt was wrinkled, his movements feverish, and each shard he grabbed seemed to humiliate him a little more.

Tadej knew it for sure: this was no clumsiness, no unfortunate accident. The movement had been deliberate, calculated, a small act of cruelty executed with precision to humiliate him in front of everyone. And that thought makes him boil with rage.  Everything in him screams to stand up, pound his fist on the table, sweep away the smug masks stretched across the faces of these men, satisfied with their own pettiness. But once again, he swallows this impulse, stifling the visceral need to react, his jaw clenched, his fists clenched under the table.
The three men finally turn their attention away, tired or satisfied with their little show. They leave Jonas alone, at least on the surface. Yet Tadej continues to stare at them, his gaze dark, his fists still clenched. He can't stand to see the mocking smiles they still wear, nor the stifled laughter that erupts every time Jonas passes by their table. And what is most unbearable to him is the way Jonas lowers his eyes when he meets their gaze. He who had been able to stand up to Tadej without flinching, he who had had the audacity to put him in his place, now bows down before them, as if crushed by an invisible weight. Tadej's heart sinks.

When Jonas finishes his shift, he packs up his things with unusual speed, puts on his coat, and rushes toward the exit. Tadej doesn't even have time to realize what's happening. The door is already slamming shut behind him.

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Chapter Text

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

When Jonas finishes his shift, he packs up his things at an unusual speed, puts on his coat, and rushes toward the exit. Tadej doesn't even have time to realize what's happening. The door slams behind him.

Taken by surprise, Tadej stands up abruptly. Almost without thinking, he leaves a tip on the table that is much more generous than the price of his drink and leaves the bar in turn. Outside, the cool night air hits him, but he pays no attention to it. His eyes immediately search for Jonas's silhouette, and he already sees him, thin and fragile, walking away at the end of the street. The waiter didn't stop; he's not waiting for him. He's walking fast, as if he wants to disappear into the night before anyone has time to catch up with him.
A pang of bitterness tightens Tadej's chest. Jonas didn't wait for him. Not even a glance back. As if he wanted to cut things short, to slam the door in his face. But Tadej is stubborn. Stubborn to the point of obsession. And he doesn't intend to give up so easily.

He strides quickly along the sidewalk, his breathing quickening as he gains ground on him. “Jonas, wait for me!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the deserted street.

He knows that this may not be the right time, that Jonas probably doesn't want him. But he can't let him go like this. Not after what he's just seen. Not after the silent humiliation he had to endure alone.

Jonas doesn't even bother to turn around. Yet Tadej senses that he has heard him: his pace quickens slightly, as if he is trying to shake him off. It's not just an impression, it's deliberate. Jonas is really trying to escape him. A bitter smile appears on Tadej's lips: if he thinks he can outrun him like that... he's forgetting that he has a professional cyclist behind him, used to chasing his opponents for hundreds of kilometers and dropping them just before the finish line. A footrace on a deserted street in Nice? He doesn't have a chance.

Tadej lengthens his stride, his steady breathing contrasting with the agitation he feels inside. In a few strides, he closes the gap, then accelerates sharply, his soles slapping against the sidewalk. It takes him barely a few seconds to catch up with him.

“Jonas, wait!” he calls out, his voice firm.

He wraps his fingers around the Dane's thin wrist to stop him. But Jonas immediately breaks free, with a suddenness that surprises Tadej, and pushes him away with a sharp gesture.
“Tadej, leave me alone! I'm not in the mood!” he spits, his tone sharp, his gaze evasive.

Tadej feels his refusal like a slap in the face, but he refuses to give up. He stares into his eyes, determined to get answers. No matter how angry he is, no matter what walls he puts up around himself. He wants to understand.

“Who were those assholes in the bar?” he asks, his voice harsher than he had intended.

Jonas explodes, overcome with anger. “Oh, those are the charming journalism students who've been making my life hell since I got here! And guess what? Now they see me as your personal whore!” His voice breaks on the last words, but he continues without pausing for breath. “So it's not just mockery anymore, or beatings, now it's worse! They call me a whore, a bitch, a slut... all day long! Everyone thinks I sleep my way to the top, and all because of who?”

His eyes shine with a painful glint, and he immediately turns his head away, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill over. Tadej swallows, taken aback by this violence. He bites his lower lip, aware that he was wrong earlier in the evening. Jonas was not okay. He had never been “unscathed,” as he had tried to make him believe. He had seen it, but he had wanted to reassure himself that the situation wasn't that serious. The truth is that the photos had devastated his daily life.

Tadej can't ignore what he sees in his eyes: a deep weariness, a fatigue that doesn't come only from exhausting shifts at the bar. Jonas is at the end of his rope, defeated, trampled by the humiliations he endures day after day. And all of this, deep down, goes back to him, to that damn night when he couldn't control himself. A bitter guilt tightens his chest, and, at the same time, a wave of unexpected tenderness. He has no desire to let him carry this burden alone.

“I... I'm really sorry,” he whispers, sincerely this time, the words stumbling in his throat. Then, in an impulsive burst, he adds, “Come with me.”

He grabs Jonas's wrist again, as if to pull him away from this street, away from this city, away from this poison that is eating away at him. But, true to himself, Jonas refuses to be dominated.

He pulls his hand away, pushing him back once again with unexpected strength for his slender frame.

“Can I ask what you're doing?” he hisses, his gaze dark, almost burning.

“Trust me, follow me,” says Tadej, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“If this is a kidnapping technique, it's the worst I've ever seen,” grumbles Jonas, dragging his feet slightly.

He sighs, but his gestures betray a cautious resignation: despite his protests, he agrees to be led away. Tadej, satisfied, gave a brief nod before resuming his walk, confident, as if he knew every corner of this city by heart.
<><><>

Jonas let Tadej lead him and barely protested when the Slovenian got him into his car and started driving. The journey is silent, and when Jonas finally looks up, he is momentarily taken aback. They are not on a beach or in a noisy bar, but perched high above Monaco, where narrow roads wind their way above the principality. The ground is paved with irregular stones, the air heavy with salt and Mediterranean flowers. Before them, the view is breathtaking: the city spreads out below like a luminous mosaic, its rooftops aligned and modern skyscrapers framing the harbor where huge yachts still sleep. Further away, the sea stretches as far as the eye can see, a vast dark expanse disturbed only by the flickering reflection of the lights on the coast.

Jonas raises an eyebrow, a smile on his lips. “I hope you're not planning to commit murder and push me off the cliff.”

Tadej laughs softly. “I could, and besides, there's no one here, no witnesses!”

Jonas rolls his eyes, but he doesn't move. His sigh is unconvincing. Tadej watches his hesitation, wondering if he's going to get up and leave, but finally Jonas sits down next to him. He folds his skinny legs against his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees, as if seeking invisible protection from the cool night air.

Tadej sits a little further back, running his fingers over the rough stone surrounding them. This is his refuge, his haven of peace, the place he discovered shortly after moving to Monaco. He comes here when he needs silence, to catch his breath. Here, the city spreads out in miniature, distant, almost unreal, and the sea opens up before him as an endless escape. How many times has he found himself sitting there, alone, watching the shades of blue change with the hours? Tonight, however, he is not alone. And that changes everything.

Silence descends, but it is not oppressive. On the contrary, it is soothing, punctuated by the muffled sounds of the city below and the distant rolling of the waves. Jonas keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, lost in thought. His features seem softer than a few hours earlier, less closed, as if the anger that had gripped him had slipped away into the night. Tadej takes the opportunity to observe him surreptitiously. The moonlight reflects off his pale skin, casting delicate shadows on his cheekbones. He notices the precise lines of his face, the way his jaw sometimes tenses, as if he were holding back words he refuses to say. He is handsome, Tadej thinks, and this thought surprises him with its simplicity.

“Jonas,” he finally whispers, his voice a little shy.

The Dane turns his head slightly, a silent sign that he is listening.

"I... I know I've already told you this, and I don't know if you believe me... but I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to get you into this mess. And I... even though we don't know each other, I understand how you feel.“ His voice falters, becoming slightly hoarse. ”I know what it's like to get knocked around for no reason, to be judged before you even open your mouth. And I... I want you to know that I'll be there if you need me."

Jonas lets out an ironic sigh, as if to say he doesn't need anyone, but his lips involuntarily form a fragile smile. A smile that, this time, is not forced. And Tadej's heart skips a beat.

“How do you do it?” Jonas asks suddenly, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Tadej frowns and tilts his head. “How do I do what?”

“Not be affected.” Jonas keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if he doesn't dare look at him directly. “I mean... you're famous. The rumors, the journalists, the critics, the haters... You've surely had to deal with a lot more than I have. So how do you manage to rise above it all, to not let it get to you?”

A small, bitter smile forms on Tadej's lips. He finds himself touched by the innocence of the question, but it also hurts him. Because he knows full well that he never had the armor that Jonas seems to attribute to him. Many people love him, yes, and he enjoys a generally positive image, but there have always been voices criticizing him, sometimes violently. And he has heard those voices. Too loud. Too often. And Tadej knows that the public doesn't love him for who he really is... he knows that the criticism would be even harsher if he decided to come out fully. Tadej knows that he would lose his title as “the public's darling” if his sexuality were to be revealed.

And then he remembers his early days, those nights when he couldn't sleep after a failed race and, instead of disconnecting from social media, he spent hours scrolling through the hateful comments under his Instagram photos. The insults, the accusations, the “too weak,” “too spoiled,” “too overrated.” Simple words, but ones that had dug into his skin like splinters. He had let them get to him to such an extent that his coach, and then his loved ones, had to forbid him from looking at his phone after competitions.

“It affects me too,” he finally replied, his voice deeper, as if weighed down by the memory. "Just because I'm famous doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. There are days when I break down, when I read everything, every word, every criticism... and I take it all in. I'm ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I let what they say eat away at me. And then, on other days, I manage not to care. I tell myself it's just noise. But I don't think it ever really goes away. I've just learned not to show that it affects me."

Jonas nods weakly, as if the answer seems both obvious and unbearable to him. He nervously plays with a small pebble, rolling it between his fingers, his eyes lost in the void. Tadej looks at him sideways. He can see in his closed posture the fatigue of someone who is already fighting too many battles.

“I was too far away to hear what they were saying earlier,” Tadej continues after a silence. “But I imagine it wasn't compliments.”

Jonas lets out a joyless laugh. “No, not really. It's been the same thing for a week: how much does he pay you? What's it like to sleep with an athlete? Is he any good?” His voice chokes on the last words, tinged with a mixture of anger and shame.

Tadej clenches his fists, a surge of rage rising within him. He sees those faces in the bar again, their vicious looks, their laughter. A bunch of cowards, he thinks. They knew exactly what they were doing, that Jonas couldn't fight back here, that he had to keep quiet because he was at work. They took advantage of his helplessness, and it disgusts him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his words sounding more sincere than he would have thought. "I know it's easy to say and almost impossible to do, but... ignore them. You don't have anything to prove to those guys. You don't care what they think. The important thing is that you know your own worth. The rest is nonsense. They can say whatever they want. And even if it were true, even if...“ His voice grows firmer. ”Even if you had slept with me or with anyone else, that would be your right. It's your life, your body. No one has the right to judge that. And certainly not a bunch of jerks like that!"

Jonas presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I agree... easier to say than to do,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

“I know,” Tadej replies with a sigh, his gaze still fixed on him. “But...” He pauses, then his expression suddenly changes, as if struck by an idea. His eyes light up with a new sparkle. “Wait. Don't move.” Jonas frowns, intrigued by the strange gleam in Tadej's eyes. He questions him with his gaze, but the Slovenian steps a little closer, deliberately reducing the distance between them. Jonas's breath catches for a moment, and his body tenses despite himself. Tadej then flashes a shy, almost awkward smile, as if afraid of crossing a line, then gently slides his fingers under the Dane's pale chin, forcing him to lift his head.

“There,” Tadej whispers with disarming gentleness. "See, that's much better. I saw you lower your head earlier, avoiding their gaze. You don't have to do that, Jonas. You don't have to give them that satisfaction."

Jonas blinks, surprised by the sincerity in his words. He wants to look away, but Tadej's fingers hold him back, firm and tender at the same time.

“The next time you see them,” the Slovenian continues, his tone more serious than it has been all evening, “promise me you won't put yourself down in front of them. Don't show them that you're hurting. You're worth so much more than that.”

Jonas swallows, his throat dry. “I'll... I'll try,” he whispers, almost inaudibly.

A tense silence descends, then Tadej flashes a mischievous smile. “Oh, and the next person who asks you if I'm a good fuck, you can tell them yes. Because I am!”

The provocative remark elicits an immediate reflex from Jonas: he gives him a sharp jab in the ribs. But behind his gesture, a smile blossoms on his lips, fragile at first, then frank. He lets out a shy little laugh, and Tadej's heart leaps when he hears it. The laugh is clear, crystalline, almost childlike. He can't help but stare at him, fascinated by the simplicity of the sound, which he would like to provoke again and again.

“Yeah, that's right!” Jonas whispered between nervous laughs. “But you'll have to excuse me, I don't intend to test it!” “What a shame...” Tadej sighed, feigning disappointment. “You're really missing something.”

Jonas rolls his eyes and, in a gesture that is half serious, half amused, he hits the back of the Slovenian's head.

“You're annoying,” he giggles, unable to hold back his smile.

“Maybe,” Tadej replies proudly, “but it makes you laugh.”

He reaches out and gently pinches Jonas's pale cheek, who grumbles in annoyance but barely manages to hold back a laugh. This little silent battle, this dance of provocations and sighs, amuses Tadej more than he would have thought. Seeing Jonas, so often closed off, gradually relax between his gestures is a victory he savors.

And yet, behind his smiles and jokes, a question burns within him. Why does Jonas put up with this loneliness, this silent humiliation? Why does he have no one to defend him? But Tadej holds back. He doesn't want to break the fragile lightheartedness that has settled in. Not tonight.

They stay like this for a long time, perched high above Monaco, talking about this and that, as if they had known each other for years. The conversation flows effortlessly, naturally, gliding from insignificant anecdotes to half-veiled confidences. Jonas ends up laughing heartily at one of Tadej's silly jokes, a sincere laugh that echoes in the night and seems to chase away the shadow that still hangs over him. Tadej finds himself thinking that he could stay there all night, listening to him, watching him smile again.

But October eventually reminded them of its icy bite. Jonas hid his frozen hands in his sleeves, and Tadej, despite his resistance, ended up shivering too. They walked back down to the car together, the silence punctuated by their white breath in the cold air.

When they arrived in front of Jonas's building, Tadej turned off the engine and leaned slightly toward him. “Call me if you need anything,” he whispers in his ear. His voice is low, serious, devoid of any malice this time.

Jonas doesn't answer, but his evasive gaze and the discreet blush on his cheeks say more than words ever could. He gets out of the car and disappears into the lobby of his building.
Back in his bright apartment in central Monaco, Tadej collapses onto his bed after a quick shower. Exhausted, he buries himself under the duvet, ready to turn off his phone. But a vibration interrupts him. The screen lights up. A message from an unknown number.
His heart skips a beat. Intrigued, he unlocks his phone and opens the notification.

{From +346******23}
Hey, thanks for tonight, it really did me good. 
Oh, and sorry for yelling at you at the end of my shift, I was really upset.
Jonas

Tadej feels his heart leap as he reads the message. He can't hold back the smile that immediately spreads across his lips, an almost childish smile that he would be ashamed to show to anyone.

Jonas wrote to him. Finally. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even to himself out loud, but he had been waiting for this moment for days. All week, he had been compulsively glancing at his phone, checking his notifications between workouts and meals, like a feverish teenager. Each time, he had hoped to see his name, and each time the disappointment had weighed a little heavier. But this time was different. Jonas had taken the initiative.

Without hesitation, Tadej saved his number in his contacts. Just seeing his name appear in the list gave him the strange feeling of receiving a precious gift. Then he immediately typed his reply, his heart beating faster than he would have liked.

{To Jonas}
It's normal, don't worry, no need to apologize, I understand.
Anyway, I'm glad to have your number! (Now I can annoy you 😉) 

A few minutes later, the reply arrives.

{From Jonas}
Try to doing that and I'll block you! 

Tadej laughs silently, alone in his bed, amused by the apparent dryness of the reply. He already knows him well enough to know that this slightly gruff tone masks a smile. Jonas never says directly when he likes something; he hides behind his barbs, behind his sighs. But Tadej is starting to read between the lines.

{To Jonas}
You love me too much to do that, right?
The answer comes quickly.

{From Jonas}
Um... No! 
But I'm exhausted, so I'm going to bed. Good night 💤

Tadej leans back against his pillows, his fingers tapping the screen mechanically. He hesitates for a second, then sends the provocation that's burning on his lips.

{To Jonas}
You have the honor and privilege of having my phone number, you should make better use of it!
Good night, have sweet dreams of me 🤩

He laughs already imagining the Dane's reaction, and sure enough, the phone vibrates almost immediately. 

{From Jonas}
It's you who should be honored to have my number, and we said dreams, not nightmares! Good night, starlet 😴

A hearty laugh escapes Tadej, breaking the silence of his apartment. He rubs his face, amused and touched at the same time. He sends one last emoji in response.
A burst of genuine laughter escapes Tadej, breaking the silence in his apartment. He rubs his face, amused and touched at the same time. He sends one last emoji in response, then places his phone on the nightstand. His eyelids grow heavy, but a smile lingers on his lips.

When he closes his eyes, it is not a victory or a podium that flashes through his mind, but the image of Jonas, his pale features suddenly lit up by a shy smile, his clear laughter still echoing in the Monegasque night. 

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Chapter Text

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

A few weeks later

His heart pounding in his chest, Jonas hesitantly reaches for the doorbell. His fingers tremble slightly as they brush against the button, not daring to press it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes briefly, then makes up his mind and presses it firmly. Almost immediately, he is overcome with a sudden wave of regret. Why had he come? Why had he accepted this invitation when he knew full well that he had no control over how the evening might unfold?
He nervously bit his lower lip and looked down at the ground, as if the cobblestones in the driveway might offer him an answer. Tadej had invited him to spend the evening at his apartment in Monaco, and Jonas had hesitated for a long, long time before agreeing. It was only after several days of procrastination, several sleepless nights pacing around his small studio in Nice, that he finally decided to say yes.

Wout had undoubtedly played an important role in Jonas' decision. Just a few days after the photos were published, he had finally called his friend, seeking support, and he thought the Belgian was going to faint when he told him that Tadej had come back to see him, that he had walked him home and that they had spent some time together. Wout's reaction had been immediate: a barrage of questions, almost an interrogation, as he wanted to know everything, absolutely everything, about the Slovenian. Jonas had almost regretted sharing the story with him; what a fool he had been, after all, to confide in such a huge fan of Pogacar! But despite his sometimes unbearable enthusiasm, Wout had always been good at giving advice. Jonas found himself telling him every detail, describing the development of this budding “relationship” with Tadej, his hesitations, his fears, but also the more pleasant moments shared with Tadej. Wout, true to his nature, never missed a beat and, with every call, he never failed to insist, half-seriously, half-teasingly, that Jonas get him an autograph from the Slovenian star. Jonas rolled his eyes every time, torn between exasperation and nervous laughter. Why does he want an autograph from that idiot so badly, Jonas wondered each time.

Under constant pressure from his friend, Jonas finally gave in. Just before getting out of Tadej's car, he sighed and said in an almost resigned tone that he needed an autograph. The teasing smile that immediately lit up the Slovenian's face took him by surprise. “Ah, finally! I was waiting for you to ask me!” Jonas rolled his eyes, annoyed, but unable to hide a slight smile. “Oh, shut the fuck up! It's not for me, it's for my best friend who's been bugging me about it for days!” Tadej burst out laughing, his mischievous gaze fixed on him. “Normal people ask me for autographs, and you'd rather slap me!” Jonas rolled his eyes, almost clicking his tongue. “Yeah, well... are you going to sign it for him or not?” The Slovenian put on a fake serious look, then replied in a calm, almost solemn tone: “No,”

Jonas stood there speechless, completely baffled. Fuck. He had expected a smile, a quick autograph... He had expected anything but that. What was he going to tell to Wout?

It wasn't until the next day, when Tadej came to pick him up in front of the bar, that Jonas got his answer. Without a word, the cyclist handed him a carefully sealed box. Intrigued, Jonas opened it... and his heart leapt. Inside was a card on which Tadej had written a personal message, signed at the bottom, but also a signed water bottle and, most importantly, a carefully folded yellow jersey with an autograph on the bottom. Attached to it was a small piece of paper with a date, a place, and a number. Jonas looked up, stunned, while Tadej smiled proudly.

“This is the jersey I wore when I won the seventeenth stage of the Tour in 2021.”

Jonas was almost speechless, unable to find the words to express his gratitude. He thanked Tadej several times, his heart still pounding, and the next day he carefully packed the jersey and water bottle before posting the package. For several days, he had watched for the slightest notification, waiting feverishly for Wout's reaction. Then, a few afternoons later, while he was on a secluded beach in Monaco with Tadej, his phone began to vibrate. It was a FaceTime call from Wout. Jonas answered and didn't have time to say a word before his friend's voice exploded from the speakers, hysterical, trembling with joy.

The Belgian waved the water bottle, then the yellow jersey in front of the screen, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Oh my god, Jonas, how did you do it! The yellow jersey he wore on the Tour! Can you believe it! The one he wore when he won a stage of the Tour! Oh my god, I think this is the best day of my life!”

Jonas' smile widened despite himself, touched by his friend's almost childlike euphoria. Next to him, Tadej was fidgeting, trying to slip into the camera's field of view, which Jonas tried to push away with an annoyed gesture. But the Slovenian, loyal to himself, ended up grabbing the phone without warning, his face suddenly appearing on the screen.

“Let's make this day even more special!” he said with a big smile.

On the other end, Wout almost fell off his chair.

“Oh my God! Pinch me, I think I'm dreaming!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide, finding himself face to face with his idol.

Jonas rolled his eyes, torn between an exasperated grunt and uncontrollable laughter. He was almost certain that Wout had just had a near heart attack in front of his screen. Tadej and Wout ended up talking for much longer than Jonas could have imagined. He had stayed in the background, surprised by how easily the two had hit it off, as if their friendship was already a given. The tone was natural, lighthearted, each true to himself, and Jonas, despite his attempts to remain discreet, couldn't help but smile tenderly when he saw the stars shining in Wout's eyes. But that smile quickly faded when, just before hanging up, Wout said in a falsely light but unequivocal tone: “Oh Tadej, idol or not, Jonas is my best friend, my baby. So if I hear that you've hurt him, I'll personally come and break both your legs and run you over with your bike!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Jonas felt his cheeks flush bright red, and he immediately buried his face in his hands, mortified. On the other end of the line, Tadej burst out laughing and raised his hands in a gesture of innocence, as if to swear he had done nothing wrong. When he finally handed the phone back to Jonas, his lips stretched into a broad, amused smile. “Your best friend is amazing, I love him!” he declared enthusiastically. Jonas, regaining a semblance of confidence and unable to resist the urge to tease, replied immediately: “Oh yeah? That's too bad, because you had the misfortune of ending up in a photo with a guy who hates you!“ Tadej raised an eyebrow, a casual smile floating on his lips, before replying in a falsely nonchalant tone: ”That's too bad, huh? But anyway, I've always had a preference for little blondies..."

Although they had shared many moments together, Jonas would never have believed, just a few weeks ago, that he would end up here. Standing in front of the apartment of a cyclist he barely knew a few weeks ago, waiting nervously like a teenager for the door to open. But loneliness weighed heavier than his doubts. He misses his friends. His family too. In Nice, he quickly realized that, despite the promise of opportunities and new encounters, isolation had become a daily burden. He missed familiar faces, conversations in Danish, the reassuring accents of his loved ones. And then Tadej arrived to fill the void.

He is one of the few people who reached out to him, without mockery or judgment. He didn't laugh at his Danish accent when he spoke, he didn't look down on him. On the contrary, he tried to understand, to talk to him, to coax a smile out of him even when Jonas refused to give it to him. With him, Jonas doesn't feel constantly inferior, unlike at university where every glance weighs like a reproach. There is a kind of respite in Tadej's presence.

And yet, at the very moment when his thoughts collide, he wonders if agreeing to come was a mistake. Why throw himself into the lion's den like this? What is Tadej really looking for by inviting him?

But he doesn't have time to dwell on these questions, because the lock clicks softly and the door opens.

Tadej appears before him, dressed simply in a black tracksuit that contrasts with his pale skin. Nothing sophisticated, nothing overly elaborate: just a natural ease, as if this relaxed attitude were second nature to him. A broad smile immediately lights up his face when he sees Jonas at the door. The Dane feels his cheeks flush despite himself, unable to hide the blush that betrays him.

Tadej, always smiling, steps aside slightly to let him pass, and Jonas, breathless, crosses the threshold, his heart racing for no reason.

“Jonas!” Tadej exclaims cheerfully as he opens the door. “Right on time!”

“Ah... yes, I... I'm pretty punctual,” Jonas stammers, his cheeks slightly red.

“I can see that. Come in, please!”

Tadej steps aside, a bright smile on his lips, inviting him to cross the threshold. Jonas steps forward timidly, his arms crossed over his chest as if to protect himself from some invisible discomfort. His steps are slow and hesitant, and he finds himself holding his breath as he enters this space that is not his own.

“See, I told you you'd eventually agree to come!” Tadej says with obvious mischief in his voice.

“Well, I'm only here because you begged me,” Jonas retorts, regaining a hint of confidence.

“Begged? Not at all!” the Slovenian feigns offense. “I just... insisted a little, that's all.”

“Just a little,” Jonas repeats, raising an eyebrow and feigning surprise. Their respective definitions of the word “insist” don't seem to be quite the same.

Because Jonas knows the truth: Tadej didn't give up. They had exchanged a lot over the past few weeks, first short, almost awkward messages, then longer conversations, sometimes stretching late into the night. Tadej had returned several evenings to the bar in Nice where Jonas works, always finding an excuse to talk to him for a few minutes, and they had gone back to the hills of Monaco many times to spend time together. They had even gone on a bike ride together, an idea suggested by Tadej with his usual enthusiasm. Jonas had agreed, partly out of defiance, partly out of curiosity, and his heart had raced as soon as he saw Tadej in his cycling gear, the fabric hugging every line of his athletic body. Before setting off, he had made him promise to wait for him and not to speed off. Tadej had kept his word... at least until they approached a pass. At that moment, driven by his competitive instinct, Tadej had suddenly accelerated, speeding down the slope with disconcerting ease and leaving Jonas behind, struggling with every pedal stroke. He had waited for him a few hundred meters further up, leaning casually on his handlebars, as if nothing had happened. When Jonas finally caught up with him several minutes later, his face was red, his breathing ragged, his body tense from the effort. He let out an annoyed grunt when he saw Tadej still looking fresh, a calm smile stretching across his lips, not even out of breath from the climb.

“You promised to wait!” Jonas grumbled, still out of breath.

“It's not my fault you ride like a granny!” Tadej retorted with his usual mischievous smile.

They then took a break at the top of the pass, Tadej giving Jonas time to catch his breath. Sitting on the side of the road, they took in the scenery. The sea breeze caressed their faces, and before them lay a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean. The sea sparkled in the sun, dotted with white sails that seemed to float like shards of light, and below, the ochre roofs and elegant buildings of Monaco formed an orderly patchwork. Jonas, despite his fatigue, found himself smiling at the panorama. He raised his phone to capture the scene, but in the end, he turned the lens toward Tadej. The Slovenian, sitting on his saddle, his face slightly reddened by the effort and his hair tousled by the wind, had something so natural about him that Jonas wanted to keep this image for himself.

Then they set off again, but the descent ahead of them was steep, and Jonas felt a knot of apprehension in his stomach. Tadej sensed it with a single glance, as if he could read his mind. So he deliberately slowed down and said in a calm voice:

“Stay on my wheel and follow my line.” Then he moved ahead, tracing a smooth line through the turns, guiding Jonas all the way down the descent. Every movement seemed calculated, protective, as if he wanted to assure him that he was safe as long as he stayed behind him. Jonas, tense at first, had finally let himself go, following this safe, almost reassuring trail that had led him safely to the bottom of the town.

And in the end, it was Tadej who fell. They had arrived in front of the Slovenian's building when, checking that Jonas was following close behind him, he hadn't seen the curb. His wheel locked up, and he toppled over his bike with a loud thud. Jonas's heart skipped a beat before racing: he thought he was having a heart attack when he saw him lying on the ground. He shouted his name and jumped off his bike to rush over to him.

Tadej had already gotten up, an awkward smile on his face. “It's nothing, I've been through worse,” he whispered, as if to reassure him. But Jonas, breathless, wasn't convinced. As he approached, he noticed a thin red line on his chin. His hand trembled slightly as he touched it with his fingertips. “You're bleeding...” he whispered tensely.

Without waiting, he helped him sit down on the sidewalk, took out his bag, and grabbed the disinfectant spray he had brought with him. His movements were slow, almost tender, as he cleaned the small wound, his fingers sliding delicately over the Slovenian's skin. Tadej let him do it without protest, his eyes fixed on him with a soft gleam.

When Jonas had finished, thinking he had done everything right, Tadej tilted his head slightly, a mischievous smile on his lips. “Won't you give me a magic kiss, just to make sure I'm not in pain anymore?” he whispered, making Jonas's heart beat a little too fast.

But when the Slovenian suggested they spend an evening together, Jonas declined, again and again. But Tadej was persistent, and he kept going until he got a “yes.” Not just out of weariness, but because, secretly, Jonas wanted to accept.

After all, it was better than a lonely Sunday evening, slumped on his bed watching a TV series without conviction, with only the silence of his small apartment for company.

“A little insistent?” Jonas repeated with discreet irony. “Maybe you should reread your messages.”

Tadej burst out laughing and raised his hands in surrender. “No, no, it's fine. But I'm glad you came. Really. I enjoy spending time with you.”
There was no irony in his voice, no malice. Only a clear sincerity that surprised Jonas. Tadej's eyes shine with genuine warmth, and Jonas, caught off guard, feels a smile escape him despite himself. He would never admit it, but he is touched. It has been a long time since anyone has said anything like that to him, a long time since he has felt like he matters to someone. But the next thought immediately gnaws at him: why would Tadej waste his time with him? Why would someone as talented, as famous, as admired as a cycling champion devote an evening to a simple waiter he met by chance? Jonas can't see what he could possibly have that is interesting enough to hold the attention of someone like him.

Tadej gives him a warm nod and invites him to follow him. Jonas does so, his footsteps echoing softly on the light-colored parquet floor. The entrance opens onto a huge living room, lined with bay windows offering a spectacular view of Monaco lit up at night and the Mediterranean stretching as far as the eye can see. Jonas stands almost frozen. The room is vast, probably twice the size of his own apartment. The lines are modern, the furniture elegant, but everything exudes a refined simplicity, far from the glitz he had imagined.

And yet Jonas suddenly feels uncomfortable. A sense of intrusion takes hold of him, as if he has just crossed an invisible boundary. He has never set foot in a place like this, where every detail seems calculated, every space designed to impress. Everything in him screams that he doesn't belong here. Tadej and he come from worlds that are too different. Jonas takes a discreet breath, hoping that his unease is not visible on his face. But deep down, he can't help wondering once again what he's doing here and what Tadej really expects of him.

“Would you like to take off your jacket?”

Jonas nods silently and timidly walks over to the chair Tadej points to on the other side of the vast living room. He takes off his beige trench coat with slow, almost clumsy movements and carefully places it on the back of the chair. Meanwhile, Tadej slumps unabashedly onto the sofa, as if he were at home—which is normal, since it is his apartment—then gestures for him to join him with a natural movement, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. But Jonas remains standing for a second too long, his gaze caught by the room around him. His eyes involuntarily take in the valuable objects scattered here and there: a bookcase filled with what he imagines to be expensive books, a few discreet trophies on a shelf, minimalist frames, a state-of-the-art audio system. Everything exudes comfort and elegance, and Jonas feels all the more out of place in this world.

“Are you going to stand there all evening?” asks Tadej, amused.

“Oh no, I...”

Jonas sits down shyly next to him, trying to sit up straight. If he weren't at the home of a virtual stranger, he would have tucked his legs up against his chest, seeking refuge in a comforting position. But here, he doesn't dare.

Tadej quickly notices his discomfort. The cheerful expression on his face softens, giving way to sincere concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, it's just that I...” Jonas stops, aware that he is stammering. He sighs, ashamed of his lack of composure, and looks away.

Tadej chuckles softly, which doesn't help the Dane's discomfort. Usually so reserved but able to protect himself behind sharp retorts, Jonas feels strangely vulnerable here. For the first time since he's known Tadej, he's losing his footing.

The Slovenian approaches without hesitation, as if to bridge the invisible distance between them. His arm naturally wraps around Jonas' shoulders, and his hand ruffles his red hair. Jonas lets out an annoyed grunt, immediately elbowing him in the ribs.

“Well, well, have we lost our tongue?” Tadej teases, a smile playing on his lips.

“First of all, that's my expression, so don't steal it,” Jonas replies in a feigned annoyed tone. “And no, I'm just... I don't know. And stop messing with me!”

The elbow hits a little harder, but Tadej laughs again, proud of having gotten a reaction out of him. Jonas sighs, resigned. This guy is a real pain in the neck, but you have to admit he has a knack for getting him to open up. And, despite himself, it feels good. The discomfort he felt gradually fades away, as if the Slovenian's lightheartedness manages to crack the shell he usually builds around himself.

The minutes pass, and they find themselves discussing everything and nothing, as they have become accustomed to doing in recent weeks. Jonas appreciates this unexpected familiarity, the fluidity with which their conversations flow. He likes the way Tadej moves effortlessly from one topic to another, how he laughs heartily at his sometimes ironic remarks. It's strange, but Jonas feels like he's known him forever. And although he would never admit it out loud, he finds himself enjoying his company, feeling a little lighter when he's around.

The image of the pretentious and arrogant Slovenian, the one he had formed when they first met, has faded day by day. Of course, Tadej loves to tease him, sometimes to the point of annoyance, but Jonas is beginning to see behind this mask a deeply generous, sincere, almost fragile young man. But his pride prevents him from saying so.

They are in the middle of a debate about the best way to make pasta carbonara—Tadej passionately arguing that cream has no place in it, Jonas replying with provocative calm that he puts it in anyway—when the doorbell rings.

Jonas jumps and shoots Tadej a questioning look. His heart immediately starts racing: he thought they would be alone, and the idea that others might arrive makes him instantly uncomfortable. He fears he won't fit in, that he'll be relegated to the shadows by a circle he'll never belong to.

“You... you invited other people?” he asks timidly.

“Oh no, don't worry!” Tadej replies, getting up. “It's just that I'm not a very good cook, so I ordered dinner tonight. I didn't want to risk poisoning you.”

Jonas snorts, a thin smile playing on his lips. “Oh, how kind of you.”

“But why did you ask?” Tadej continues, amused. “Didn't you want anyone else to be here? Didn't you want to share me?”

“What? I... of course not!” Jonas stammers, his cheeks suddenly red.

Tadej bursts out laughing and heads for the door. Jonas crosses his arms, cursing himself inwardly. Why does he always fall for his provocations? And why is it never so easy to admit that in reality... maybe he wouldn't have wanted to share this evening with anyone else.

Tadej returns a few moments later, carrying a large paper bag, which he places on the coffee table in the living room. Jonas watches him intently as the Slovenian carefully unpacks several dishes with spicy and appetizing aromas.

“I hope you like it,” Tadej says with a mischievous smile. “Tonight, I'm going to introduce you to a little piece of my country.”

Jonas feels his lips stretch into a smile despite himself. The gesture touches him more than he cares to admit. He finds it almost touching that Tadej has thought to share a little of his Slovenian culture with him, as if he wants to open a door to his world. What Tadej doesn't know, however, is that Jonas is already familiar with these flavors:  He had been to Slovenia a few years earlier, on a short trip with Wout, and had already tried several of these typical dishes.

“I know,” he replied, nodding his head, his voice softer than he would have liked. “And don't worry, I really like it.”

Tadej looked up at him, surprised. “Really? You've been to Slovenia before?”

Jonas nodded slightly. “Yes. I went there a few years ago. And... I remember it well. I loved it.”

Tadej's eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity. “So tell me... what did you like best?”
Jonas was surprised by the question. He had expected Tadej to quickly move on to something else, but no, he seemed to really want to know, to be interested in his memories and impressions.

The Dane takes a second to think, then recalls with a certain nostalgia the alpine landscapes, the quiet villages, and the incomparable taste of certain pastries that he had never found anywhere else. Tadej listens attentively, nodding, asking questions, trying to dig a little deeper.

Jonas finds himself talking more than he would have thought. He is not a talkative person by nature, but Tadej's sincere interest encourages him to open up, at least a little. And in return, he sees that attentive, warm gaze that never leaves him. There is something unsettling about being observed like this, but at the same time, he feels... valued. The impression that Tadej is really listening to him.

They then begin to eat, sharing dishes that are familiar to one and comforting to the other. Jonas realizes that he is enjoying this moment much more than he would have imagined. Far from the noise of the bar, far from the mocking glances at the university, he finally feels at home. And Tadej's presence, contrary to all expectations, is not oppressive or annoying, but almost soothing.

When the meal is over, Tadej jumps up and disappears into the next room for a moment. Jonas, intrigued, sees him return with two game controllers in his hands, a childlike smile on his lips.

“You told me you were pretty good at gaming, so are you ready to get your ass kicked?” he says defiantly.
Jonas raises an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “No way. You're the one who's going to lose.”

The Slovenian laughs and hands him a controller. Jonas immediately feels a familiar rush of excitement. He used to play these kinds of games a lot with Wout when he was younger, and he's pretty good at them. He has no intention of being made a fool of, especially not by Tadej. Especially since Tadej has added a little rule: the loser has to do a dare chosen by the winner. It's an idea that amuses Jonas but also worries him a little. Tadej is too playful for it to remain innocent.
Tadej quickly scans the list of teams on the screen, his smile widening in anticipation of the match. “Okay, go ahead, I'm nice, choose Denmark if you want.”

Jonas raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Are you making fun of me?”

“A little, yeah,” Tadej replies, bursting out laughing. “Because between you and me, Denmark isn’t exactly the terror of the stadiums when it comes to soccer. You’re not going to get very far with that.”

Jonas purses his lips, feigning offense, then selects his country with a firm gesture. “Whatever. I don't need a team of stars to beat you.”

“Oh yeah?” Tadej grabs the controller and immediately chooses France, his smile widening even more. "Okay, fine. I'll take Les Bleus. World champions, a monster squad, nothing but heavy hitters. You and your little Danes won't even see the ball."

Jonas snickers, his eyes sparkling with defiance. “We'll see. It'll be even more humiliating for you when you lose to a team you consider ‘weak’.”

Tadej gives him a friendly nudge with his shoulder. “You talk too much. In five minutes, you'll be begging me to go easy on you.”
Jonas shakes his head, amused. “No, in five minutes, you'll be the one regretting choosing France.”

The two settle in more comfortably, controllers in hand. The defiant air between them lightens the mood, and Jonas gradually feels his unease disappear. It's as if they've become two kids again, sitting side by side bickering over a video game, forgetting for a few hours the differences in their lives.

They have been playing match after match for over an hour, and the tension is at its peak: two wins each, two losses each. The final match will decide the winner of the evening. Jonas is focused, his eyes glued to the screen, his grip tight on the controller. He is determined to win this game and prove that he can beat Tadej. But the Slovenian is playing well, too well. He knows the mechanics of the game, anticipates the passes, and it is he who opens the scoring.

Jonas grumbles, a pout of annoyance on his lips, but refuses to give up. He grits his teeth, grips his controller a little tighter, and a few minutes later, he manages to equalize with a well-placed shot. The joy is short-lived: the clock is ticking, with only a few seconds left in the virtual match. The ball lands at the feet of one of Tadej's players, and Jonas holds his breath.

No. Impossible. Not now.

The shot is fired, direct and unstoppable. The goal is validated. Regulation time ends in the next second.

“There you go!” shouts Tadej, leaping off the sofa with boundless energy. The Slovenian rejoices, arms raised as if he had just crossed a finish line on an Alpine peak. Jonas, meanwhile, puts down the controller with an exasperated sigh and crosses his arms over his chest, sulking like a child caught doing something wrong. He hates losing, even more so to Tadej, who gloats unrestrainedly.

“Okay, are you done jumping around?” Jonas grumbles.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Tadej comes back to sit next to him and, unable to resist the urge to tease him, pinches his cheek like a child. “Well, are you sulking? Wasn't it me who won, by any chance?”

“No, I'm not sulking,” Jonas replies curtly, even though his cheeks are flushing. “And I'm sure you cheated.”

“Of course...” Tadej laughs heartily. “And what about the option ‘you suck at FIFA’? Doesn't that cross your mind?”

Jonas sighs in annoyance, grabs a cushion next to him, and throws it with all his might at the Slovenian's head. The blow elicits a burst of laughter from Tadej, who shakes his head theatrically.

“You're going to regret that!”

“Oh, I'm scared,” Jonas retorts, his voice deliberately drawling.

“You should be!”

The cushion comes back to hit the Dane square in the face, who stifles a groan. But Tadej doesn't stop there: his fingers find Jonas's hip and he applies pressure, causing him to jump. Jonas lets out an uncontrollable laugh and tries to push the hand away, but Tadej has already figured it out: he's found his weak spot. He repeats the pressure, relentless, taking advantage of every jolt, and Jonas, despite his efforts to defend himself, ends up pinned against the sofa.

In a matter of seconds, Tadej has gained the upper hand. He wraps his legs around the Dane's waist, locking his hips, and grabs his wrists, pinning them above his head. Jonas struggles, but his strength is nothing compared to that of the Slovenian. The tickling resumes with a vengeance, and Jonas bursts out laughing, unable to regain his composure, his voice broken by hilarity and exhaustion.

When Tadej finally decides to spare him, both are panting, out of breath, their chests rising in unison. Silence falls abruptly, broken only by their rapid breathing. Jonas then becomes aware of their position: trapped between Tadej's legs, his body pressed against the sofa, his wrists still held above his head. His heart skips a beat, then another.

The Slovenian's face is terribly close. Too close. Jonas can make out every detail: the amused gleam in his eyes, still sparkling with laughter, the strand of blond hair falling across his forehead, the warm breath brushing against his skin. A sudden heat rises to his cheeks, his body reacting involuntarily to this unexpected closeness.
Their proximity doesn't seem to bother Tadej in the least, quite the contrary. The Slovenian keeps that victorious smile on his lips, a smile that is both mischievous and insolent, the smile of someone who knows he has the upper hand and intends to take advantage of it. Jonas, on the other hand, is boiling inside: his heart is beating too fast, and the diffuse heat running through his skin betrays him. He wants to protest, but his voice trembles slightly when he blurts out:

“No, stop!”

Tadej raises an eyebrow, amused, without loosening his grip. “You want me to stop, are you sure?”

“Guess so!”

“Um... okay, but you'll have to ask me nicely.”

Jonas sighs in exasperation but reluctantly capitulates. “Would you mind stopping and... letting go of me, please?”

A teasing gleam flashes in Tadej’s clear eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you can do better than that. Wait, I’ll show you.” He adopts a theatrical tone and, exaggerating each word, continues: “Please Tadej, the most handsome, kindest, muscular, and strongest player in FIFA, would you be so kind as to leave me alone?”

Jonas rolls his eyes, suppresses a grunt, and immediately replies, “What next! Careful, your ankles are going to swell up so much you won’t be able to ride your bike! Leave me alone or I'll punch you, okay?"

Tadej's smile widens even more, and Jonas feels his heart rate accelerate dangerously as the Slovenian lowers his face slightly toward his. Their noses are only a few inches apart, and Jonas instinctively holds his breath. Tadej leans closer, his smile turning into a whisper close to his ear:

“And how do you plan to hit me with your hands locked above your head?”

The Slovenian's warm breath brushes against his skin, and Jonas can't help the shiver that runs down his spine. He looks away briefly, but it's already too late: Tadej has seen, he has understood. His amused gaze is accompanied by a more intimate glimmer of victory, as if he has just scored an invisible goal in a game that dare not speak its name.Jonas can't think of anything to say, his throat tight, his heart pounding. Tadej, satisfied with his effect, winks at him before finally releasing the pressure on his wrists.

Jonas straightens up a little, still confused by what has just happened. His breath is short, his heart is beating too fast, and he doesn't really understand his own body's reactions. Tadej has a strange effect on him, one he didn't expect and finds difficult to control. He tries to hide his embarrassment, to compose a neutral expression, but he already knows he's not convincing. And the proof comes immediately: the Slovenian stares at him with sincere curiosity and asks softly if everything is okay. Jonas forces a smile, nods his head, and says yes. Fortunately, Tadej doesn't press the issue, as if he senses that it's better to give him some space.

Jonas takes the opportunity to glance at his cell phone. The screen shows that it's past midnight, and he lets out a sigh. He'd like to stay a little longer, he admits to himself, but he has class tomorrow morning and reason takes over. Reluctantly, he gets up, collects his things, and heads for the exit. Tadej, true to form, accompanies him to the door. The Slovenian maintains his lighthearted, almost carefree energy, and Jonas thanks him for the evening in a slightly shy voice. He thinks the moment is over and is ready to go home, but Tadej wouldn't be Tadej without adding one last surprise.

And it is at this very moment that he remembers the dare. Jonas had hoped that he had forgotten, that he had gotten carried away by the evening, but no: the Slovenian had not lost his memory. And when he finally explains his idea, Jonas almost chokes on his own saliva.

“Am I dreaming, or did you just indirectly ask me out on a date?” he blurts out, half-serious, half-ironic, his cheeks already burning.

Tadej bursts out laughing and shakes his head with a feigned innocent look. "A date, dinner, an evening with friends... call it what you want. But next week, your forfeit is to come spend the evening with me at a restaurant."

Jonas sighs and rolls his eyes. “And I suppose there's no possibility of negotiation?”

“Not really, no. Just send me a message to let me know which day works for you.”

A nervous smile spreads across Jonas's lips, despite himself. He nods, unable to find a way out, and the two exchange a few more words before Jonas takes his leave. He walks down the long driveway in the opposite direction, his bag slung over his shoulder, his footsteps echoing softly in the silent night. But halfway down the path, he stops and, without thinking, turns around.
Tadej is still there, leaning against his doorframe, staring at him. The Slovenian gives him a bright smile, the one he almost always wears, but tonight it seems to have something more intimate, more genuine about it. Jonas, a little confused, waves one last time before continuing on his way.

And as he walks away, he feels his mind becoming more confused. He can't explain why, but deep down, Tadej's invitation makes him really happy. Against all odds, he even finds himself looking forward to seeing him again.

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Chapter Text

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

“So Tadej, what's your new boyfriend's name?”

Adam's mocking voice echoes through the large, bright living room, breaking the relative calm that had prevailed until then. Slumped in an armchair, Tadej immediately looks up from his phone, questioning his friend with his eyes. What has he gone and done now?

“Um... may I ask which boyfriend you're referring to?” he asks curtly, frowning.

Adam laughs and gives Jasper, who is already doubled over on the sofa, a knowing look. “Don't pretend, man. We've seen you smiling like an idiot at your screen for the last few minutes. You look like Joao at the beginning of his relationship with his girlfriend. So, who's the lucky guy?”

Jasper immediately chimes in, unable to hold back his laughter. “Admit it! Does he send you sweet little words? ‘Good night’ messages with heart emojis? Or maybe nudes? You’re making that face, anyway!”

Tadej sighs in exasperation, throwing his rolled-up T-shirt straight at Jasper’s head, who almost chokes with laughter. Joao, sitting quietly at the table by the bay window, barely looks up from his coffee cup but already has a knowing smile on his face.

Although he is outgoing by nature, Tadej has never been one to talk about his private life, let alone his romantic life. He can talk about races, training, and his team for hours, but anything related to his feelings remains locked behind a barrier that he doesn't allow anyone to cross. He has carried this secret for years, like a weight, an invisible burden that he drags behind him at every press conference, every interview, every forced smile in front of the cameras. Racing for the UAE team has never given him any choice but to hide and keep quiet. Tadej knows that racing for this team is an immense privilege. The prestige, the colossal resources, the financial security—all of this offers him a career he could hardly have dreamed of as a teenager. He reaps benefits that no other team could match. Yet a stubborn voice still echoes in the back of his mind, reminding him that if he had signed elsewhere, perhaps he would have had the opportunity to be himself. 

At the beginning of his contract, he had tried to broach the subject. On several occasions, he had hinted at his doubts, his need for authenticity. But each time, his sports director cut him off, reminding him of his primary function: “You don't have to mix that with sports. Just ride your bike.” The words fell like an insurmountable barrier, and Tadej ended up keeping quiet, swallowing his frustration and accepting the conditions imposed on him.

But silence does not stifle wounds. After each stage, when the winner crosses the line and runs to hug his partner, kissing her in front of the whole world, Tadej feels a painful twinge in his chest. He often looks away, as if to protect himself, but the image remains etched in his mind: the joyful embraces, the shared tears, the faces beaming with pride. Even the marriage proposals, sometimes staged on the most famous avenue, in front of the world's cameras, cruelly remind him of what he will never have.
He knows he will never have the chance to run into his partner's arms at the peak of victory. He will never be able to kiss him in front of the world, lift him up in joy amid the applause. His team will not give him the opportunity. They have already made it clear to him that this must never happen. 

His agent had nearly exploded with rage when the photos with Jonas appeared in magazines, with sensationalist headlines immediately questioning his sexuality. Tadej still remembered the tightness in his chest that day: he had feared not only for his career, but also for Jonas, who had been exposed against his will. The situation had been far from pleasant at the time, but deep down, a little voice told him that this scandal could be an opportunity. Perhaps it was finally time to stop lying. To unburden himself. To breathe again.

He had dared to mention it to his agent again, just once, in half-words. But as soon as he had broached the idea, the reaction had been brutal, once again. A scathing reprimand, words that stung like slaps. "Public relations is my job, Tadej. I know what I'm doing. I've already told you, you just ride your bike!" The words had echoed for a long time, further deepening the guilt and shame he had walled himself up in. His agent had left him no room for maneuver, demanding an official, clear, and unambiguous denial. And Tadej, his throat tight, had obeyed.

He had done as he was told in silence, suffering more than he let on, and hadn't found the strength to talk to Jonas about it. Why add to his burden? The Dane already had enough problems of his own to deal with. So Tadej had taken it on the chin once again, gritting his teeth, convinced he had no choice but to keep quiet.

However, Tadej could count on Jasper's unconditional support. They had known each other for years, long before victories and podiums turned their lives upside down. Jasper was the first rider Tadej dared to confide in about his homosexuality. Tadej could no longer bear to hide it. Every day, he felt like he was playing a role, lying to his friend by hiding an essential part of who he was. He couldn't take it anymore.

Yet fear knotted his stomach, and Tadej dreaded Jasper's reaction. He knew how much this kind of confidence could change everything. He had already endured mockery in Slovenia, insults whispered behind his back or shouted in the street. Several of his childhood friends had laughed at him, rejected him without a word, as if this truth suddenly erased all the years they had spent together. These memories still burned in his mind, and he feared reliving the same scenes.

The day he finally decided to speak up, his voice trembled. Sitting across from Jasper, his hands clammy, Tadej nervously twisted his fingers, biting his lower lip until he tasted metal. In a barely audible whisper, he finally confessed that he preferred men. His heart was beating so hard that he thought it would explode in his chest.

Jasper remained silent, his gaze fixed on him, inscrutable. Every second of that silence seemed like an eternity to Tadej. He expected the worst: an outburst of anger, an insult that would tear his soul apart, a brutal rejection. He could already hear that word he hated, that “faggot” that had been thrown at him so many times like a slap in the face. He braced himself to see him get up, turn on his heel, and disappear from his life.
But instead, Jasper simply shrugged and said in a calm, almost amused tone, "Oh, okay. So what... am I your style?"

Tadej stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to tell if he was serious or being provocative. For a second, he stood there speechless, paralyzed by surprise, before the Belgian burst out laughing, which immediately broke the tension.

Jasper then moved closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then gently pulled him toward him. Tadej felt his tense muscles gradually relax, his fingers stopping their trembling. “Relax,” Jasper whispered, his laughter subsiding to make way for sincere gentleness. “I don't care at all. I love you just the way you are. It doesn't change how I feel about you. And I promise I won't tell anyone.” And Jasper always kept his word.

Tadej wasn't surprised to see that Jasper was one of the first to call him when the photos were published, swearing to support him no matter what, that he would always be there for him and that he would “run over the first person who messed with him.” The remark made Tadej smile. Jasper was still true to himself. But it was Adam and his teammates' gesture that touched him the most: they had unanimously agreed not to race for the team anymore if UAE ever decided to fire him or punish him in any way because of his sexual orientation.

“I don't have a boyfriend, you guys are imagining things!” Tadej replied, feigning indifference, as he slipped his cell phone into the pocket of his tracksuit.

“You're not going to make us believe that!” Adam sneered, already on a roll. “We've seen you, your silly smile, as soon as you get a notification. It's obvious, Pogui!”
Joao, for his part, simply looks up at Tadej, calm but piercing. “Or... if it's not a boyfriend, then you're in love. I can see it in your eyes. There's no other explanation.”

Tadej grumbles and sinks a little deeper into his chair, as if to escape their insistent curiosity. His friends are real cops, not cyclists. They sniff out the slightest secret, and he knows they won't let it go easily. Yet he feels his cheeks flush despite himself, betraying his confusion. Images of Jonas immediately come to mind: his quiet laugh, his slim figure, his clear eyes that sometimes avoid his own, only to unsettle him further. He hates to admit it, but just thinking about it makes his heart beat a little faster.

Tadej thinks back to all those stolen moments with the young Dane. He looks back on their long bike rides, where Jonas would get out of breath but refuse to give up, tongue hanging out and cheeks red, making Tadej burst out laughing, unable to contain himself. He also thinks back to their walks on the beaches of Nice, their footsteps sinking into the damp sand at dusk, when the sea reflected orange hues and the salty wind tangled Jonas's blond hair. Tadej also smiled as he thought back to those late evenings when he would pick Jonas up after his shift at the bar. Jonas often came out exhausted, his shoulders slumped and his features drawn, but his face always lit up when he saw him, even though he tried to hide it. And then there were those Sunday afternoons spent watching movies, sprawled on the couch, their legs tangled under a blanket. Jonas had a habit of commenting on the plot in a low voice, getting angry at the characters, or laughing too loudly at moments that weren't supposed to be funny, and Tadej always found himself watching Jonas more than the screen. What he liked wasn't so much the movie, but the way Jonas frowned, the way he rested his head on his shoulder without even thinking about it, or his distracted smile when he felt himself being watched. These were simple moments shared with the Dane, but Tadej had rarely felt so happy.

And then there was that evening two weeks ago, which Tadej remembers as a shining memory. Of course, he hadn't forgotten the bet he had won against Jonas, and since that morning he had been thinking about where to take him. He had first reviewed the list of Michelin-starred restaurants in Nice, but he quickly gave up. It wasn't Jonas's style. Nor was it really his. All those overly formal places, where meticulously prepared dishes are served on huge plates, had nothing authentic about them. Jonas would surely find no pleasure there. So Tadej had looked elsewhere, searching for something more genuine, more simple, and he had come across an old Nice brasserie, run by the same family for several generations. A traditional place, with checkered tablecloths, walls covered with yellowed frames, and the comforting smell of simmering dishes. No need for luxury, just warmth and sincerity.

They spent the whole evening there, sitting side by side, sharing generous dishes and a bottle of French wine. Their laughter echoed through the lively room, and their teasing never stopped. Jonas grumbled every time Tadej picked at his plate, but his protests were never very serious, especially when he started doing exactly the same thing in return. Tadej, still laughing, remembers how Jonas frowned as he tried to hide his smile, unable to maintain his pretense for long.

True to his nature, Jonas refused to let Tadej pay the bill. The Slovenian had to resort to a ruse, pretending he needed to use the restroom, before discreetly settling the bill at the counter. He found Jonas back at the table looking offended, that mixture of annoyance and tenderness that made him even more charming.

They then walked on the beach, which was almost deserted at this late hour. The sea stretched out dark and immense before them, punctuated by the regular sound of the waves. They staggered a little, slightly drunk after finishing a bottle of wine and two cocktails each. The drunkenness made Jonas more talkative, and Tadej took advantage of this to tease him, approaching the icy water and splashing him a few times. Jonas tried to retaliate, but Tadej had already run away laughing, his shoes in his hand, running across the wet sand.

The Dane had chased after him, laughing too, until Tadej, clumsy, tripped over the sand and fell flat on his back. Jonas, hilarious, had taken the opportunity to pick up a handful of sand and stick it in his hair. Tadej grumbled and shook his head before grabbing Jonas's wrist and pulling him to the ground. They ended up both in the sand, doubled over with laughter, their clothes soaked and covered in sticky grains.

They returned home like that, drunk, their clothes in disarray, sand clinging to their skin. But they came home with their heads full of memories. Tadej had gone to bed that night feeling that the whole world could collapse around them, as long as he had Jonas by his side, laughing with him, he didn't need anything else.

Tadej remained silent for a few seconds, hoping his friends would tire of waiting. But Adam and Jasper insist, their mocking voices overlapping, and Joao stands there, a silent observer, as if he already knows. The pressure mounts. Finally, Tadej capitulates, sighing:

“Well... yes, it's true. There is someone I really appreciate. There, are you happy now?”
The reaction is immediate: the three burst into delighted exclamations, their laughter echoing throughout the apartment. Adam bangs his fist on the armrest, Jasper jumps up, and Joao finally cracks a real smile, satisfied to see Tadej finally give in.

“See, we were right!” Adam exclaims triumphantly. “Come on, tell us! Who is it? What's his name? How did you meet? What does he look like?”

Tadej looks away, staring at the bay window behind which the Monegasque night stretches out, dotted with lights. Part of him wants to tell them the truth, to say Jonas's name out loud, to share what has been on his mind for weeks. But another, deeper part of him jealously guards this secret. Because Jonas is no laughing matter. Because what he feels is far too fragile to be thrown to the wolves of his friends' laughter and taunts.

After reflection, Tadej tells himself that perhaps he shouldn't have let it slip. He knows his three friends, and he already knows that they won't let him go until they get more details. In a matter of seconds, he finds himself the center of attention, and he feels his phone burning in his pocket as if it were betraying his secret.

“Okay, the interrogation is over!” he says, raising his hands as if to calm them down. 

“Oh no, this is just the beginning! Come on, Pogui, at least give us his name! 

Tadej sighs, knowing full well that the longer he waits, the more they will insist. “Jonas,” he finally blurts out, in a lower voice, as if saying the name in front of them makes it all more real.
His friends sit up almost simultaneously, looking surprised but above all curious. The questions come thick and fast, with everyone talking over each other. Adam wants to know how they met, Jasper insists on hearing the details, and Joao, more composed, watches Tadej's reaction closely, waiting patiently for an explanation.

“Well, okay...” Tadej sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We met in a bar in Nice, one night, completely by chance.”

Adam narrows his eyes, intrigued. “A bar? You, in a quiet bar, without planning it? Are you trying to make us believe in fate?”

“Yes... well, not really,” Tadej continues, hesitating. “I was completely drunk. I was really upset about my thigh injury, and... I just wanted to forget. So I got drunk like hell in some obscure bar in Nice. And Jonas, well... he worked there. He found me and was kind enough to call me a driver to take me home.”

“Wait, don't tell me that's the guy in that scandalous photo?” exclaims Jasper, looking surprised.

“Yes, that's it, ” mumbles Tadej, still ashamed just thinking about it. “Because of that, he ended up plastered all over the place when he hadn't asked for any of it. It got him into trouble, and... I couldn't stand the idea of leaving him alone with it. So I came back the next day to apologize, and... let's just say he didn't welcome me with open arms. He absolutely hated me. He told me to fuck off."

Joao bursts out laughing. “I love it already! Finally, someone who doesn't bow down to you. That must have felt weird, right?”

“And then?” insists Jasper, arms crossed, clearly eager for juicy details.

Tadej sighs and slumps back against the sofa. "Then... I didn't give up. I went back several times, and little by little, we talked. At first, he was cold, suspicious, almost rude. He rebuffed me every time... But... the more I came back, the more he relaxed a little. He's not the type to open up easily, but when he does... I don't know, you can tell it's sincere."

Adam looks at him sideways, a smile playing on his lips. “So basically, he put you in your place and you wanted to come back again and again?”

“Exactly,” admits Tadej, smiling. "Jonas has quite a personality. He's not easily impressed, even when he's dealing with someone like me. And maybe that's what I liked about him. He doesn't care that I'm famous, he talks to me like he would anyone else, sometimes even like I'm a pain in the ass. And that... well, that's different."

“What exactly does that mean?” asks Joao, squinting.

“It means that Pogui is a sado and he wants to chase after a guy who hates him, rather than finding an easy fuck!” Jasper chuckles.
Tadej rolls his eyes and throws a pillow at the Belgian's head. Idiot, thinks Tadej.

“It means that... I respect him for that. And I've grown attached to him, really. I feel good when I'm with him, it's not just a distraction. I don't want to treat him like a one-night stand. With Jonas, he... I don't know, it's different."

A moment of silence falls over the living room as his three friends take in what he has said. Then Jasper bursts out laughing, throwing his hands in the air. “Damn, guys... we're witnessing something historic: Tadej Pogačar is in love!”

Adam immediately adds: “Meeting a Dane who hated you! Couldn't you have chosen something more complicated?”

Tadej rolls his eyes, but a smile spreads across his lips despite himself. “You three are really jerks.”

“Maybe,” replies Joao with a snicker, “but we're happy for you, and wait, but then…”

The questions from Adam, Jasper, and Joao come thick and fast. Three real gossips, Tadej thinks, rolling his eyes. He hasn't had a moment's peace since he mentioned Jonas's name... The astonishment is clear on his friends' faces when he admits that he has known Jonas for several weeks.
“Wait, you've known him for a while and you still haven't hooked up with him?” Jasper exclaims, laughing. “What's wrong with you? You don't usually wait that long. One night and boom, it's done!”

Tadej throws a pillow at him, a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “You're an idiot,” he grumbles, unable to suppress a slight smile. He admits that his friends aren't entirely wrong: he hasn't always been a model citizen. He's still young, he likes to have fun, and he's had his share of one-night stands without thinking twice. But with Jonas, everything is different. Absolutely everything.

“Exactly, idiot, I don't want it to be a one-night stand!” he blurts out, more seriously.

Adam raises his eyebrows, a smirk on his face. “But are you in love?”
The question hits him like a ton of bricks, and Tadej remains silent for a moment. His shoulders rise slowly, betraying his hesitation. In love... the word is perhaps a little too strong, too hasty. But he can't deny how he feels. Jonas doesn't leave him indifferent. Far from it. Every message, every smile, every evening spent with him stays with him longer than he wants to admit.

“I don't know,” he finally whispers, “but... I like him. I really like him.”

Jasper immediately claps his hands as if he's just won a bet. “Well then, what are you waiting for? Tell him!”

Tadej sighs, burying his hand in his dark hair, visibly troubled. “Maybe because I'm not even sure he feels the same way!”
Joao, who had been more discreet until then, speaks calmly. “Yeah, but if you don't try, you'll never know.”

Tadej presses his lips together, torn between fear and desire. The idea of opening his heart to Jonas terrifies him. What if the feeling isn't mutual? What if he hits a wall, he who is not used to putting himself in such a vulnerable position?

“But... what if it's not mutual?” he finally asks, almost in spite of himself.

Adam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Well, at least you'll have tried! And seriously, can you see him turning you down?”

Tadej presses his lips together, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Um... yes!” he whispers. "If Jonas doesn't feel the same way, he'd be perfectly capable of rejecting me. You haven't seen him...

He's got a strong temper. When he wants to, he knows how to shut you down."

Joao raises an eyebrow, amused. “And that's what you like about him, right?”

Tadej doesn't answer right away. His friends aren't entirely wrong, and it annoys him to admit it. Jonas's direct, sometimes slightly abrasive manner is precisely what intrigued him when they first met. Jonas never gave him special treatment just because he was famous, and that raw sincerity touched something in him.

“Yeah, well, maybe a little,” he finally mutters. “But keep this conversation to yourself, understand? I don't want it turning into some stupid rumor.”

“Of course, lips sealed,” Jasper assures him, although his smirk doesn't inspire much confidence.

As Tadej gets up to fetch some water, Adam suddenly calls out to him, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Wait, wait! Tadej, don't you have a little photo to show us? We couldn't see much in the ones in the magazines!”

Tadej rolls his eyes. Of course. He should have expected it: his three crazy friends weren't going to leave it at that. He hesitates for a second, then takes his cell phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and reluctantly hands it to them. The screen displays his wallpaper: a photo he took recently with Jonas at a night out where they ended up laughing about everything and nothing. Jonas appears in it with a half-smile and sparkling eyes, and Tadej knows he chose this photo because he can't bring himself to part with it.

“He is cute,” Adam comments sincerely.

“Yeah, but please don't stare too much,” Tadej retorts immediately, taking his phone back.

Jasper bursts out laughing. “Oh, but you're already jealous, man!”

“I'm not jealous!” Tadej grumbles, even though his cheeks are turning slightly pink.

His three friends laugh even harder, exchanging knowing glances. Tadej sighs loudly, puts away his cell phone, and shakes his head, but deep down he can't help but smile. Maybe they're making fun of him, but this time, their teasing doesn't feel unpleasant.

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Hey! So, as I said at the beginning, I have another story that I had already written about a different universe, but I can transpose it with Jonas and Tadej! It's a completely alternative and “fantastic” universe.

I'll post some extracts from the first two first chapters. Let me know if you'd be interested in me posting it ;) 

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His eyes riveted on the maps of the kingdom, Jonas listens wearily as the officers explain the situation to their king.<br />
War...

For as long as Jonas can remember, war has been a part of his life. The war between the kingdom of Ardonyria and the kingdom of Gelindel had already broken out when Jonas was born. War has cradled Jonas’s life since he was very young, he himself  trained for war since he was old enough to walk.

"You will make your father proud. You will follow in his footsteps and you will be an even greater man than he was.”

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“Wow, I've rarely seen such vast landscapes," exclaims Sepp Kuss, as the great plains of the south of the kingdom appear before them, stretching for dozens of kilometres..

“They're vast, yes, but stay on your guard, we lost control of them over a week ago and we have no idea what's there," replies Jonas.<br />
“Vast and full of riches," replies Remco, "these plains are full of gold mines and much more besides! It's easy to understand the King's obsession with conquering them!”

“And it's even easier to understand why you risked your life to do it alone, Jonas! Lands like this are worth the pride and favour of a king, so why share the recognition when you can have it all to yourself," retorts Sepp.

Jonas freezes and tighthened his grip on his mount's reindeer, while Wout glared at Sepp.

“These lands were also full of villages," retortes Jonas icily. "Stay vigilant, these lands are no longer under our control.”

"You'll learn to think before you speak, if he did it, it was only so you wouldn't have to and live with it! ". Jonas hears Wout’s voice and is grateful that at least one of them is aware of the price to be paid for conquering these lands. A price that Jonas has decided to pay alone, not wanting others to have to live with the same guilt that has been eating away at him for months.

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“Go, now," replies Jonas icily.

“No, I'm not leaving you here," insists Wout.

“Wout, that's an order, go.”

“Jonas," murmured the older man.

“That's an order, Wout, go now.”

Alone, Jonas turns his attention back to the men of the kingdom of Ardonyria, now almost at his level. Jonas notices one of them in the lead, seemingly guiding all the others, and he can almost feel the power emanating from this man. He's certainly not alone, but Jonas is certain that he has played a large part in repelling Jonas’ usually lethal attacks. But far from being intimidated, Jonas inhales and exhales deeply, his breath mingling with the icy air and forming clouds of white vapour, then he once again draws on his magic and energy, letting the ice burst from the ground beneath his feet. Thousands of ice crystals form rapidly and rise gracefully and fluidly towards the sky, forming a massive, impenetrable wall in front of him. Jonas jerks his arms out to either side, spreading the wall out for hundreds of meters. The perfect-looking ice is translucent and sparkling, reflecting the grey sky. The smooth, perfectly formed surface of the ice also means that it is capable of withstanding the most powerful weapons, but Jonas doesn't know how long it will hold up against the powerful flames of the men advancing dangerously towards him.

Jonas’ legs are weak, like the melting snow as the summer season approaches when he finishes building the wall. Breathless, Jonas leans against the wall, exhausted. Jonas had not drawn on his vital energy in this way for a long time.

As a black veil covers his vision, he can vaguely make out the outline of a man whose suffocating heat Jonas can feel consuming him from the inside. This must be the man who is going to cut him down in a matter of moments, letting his flames char his body and reduce the last icy cells in his body to nothing. Resigned and exhausted, he closes his eyes, waiting for what comes next. Jonas lets his mind drift away like a polar breeze seeping through the crevices of Gilendel's frozen landscape, scattering his thoughts across the endless expanses of winter.  But as Jonas’ mind slips into unconsciousness, instead of a stifling heat, the last thing Jonas is aware of is a icy blast of fresh air caressing his face and body, creating a protective cocoon of cold that soothes the burns and wounds inflicted.

🔥🔥🔥

"This man should be dead, you should have killed him earlier when you had the chance! And you still can, so do it and get rid of one of them once and for all!"

Tadej swallows and takes a deep breath, the heat of his indignation flickering in his eyes as he stares at Nick. The idea of killing the young man when he was alone, weakened and unarmed goes against everything Tadej has ever aspired to and learned, and he can't understand how it could have crossed Nick's seething mind.

"I won't kill an unarmed, weakened man, no matter what side he's on."

"An enemy who wouldn't hesitate for a second to kill us, and without the slightest hesitation or empathy! Look at the lands around you, how much would you bet that he took part in conquering them, do you think he cared about the innocent, unarmed people who lived here when they were killed?"

"We know nothing about how they froze the land, and that's why I refuse to act as they do, Nick."

"It will be up to the King to make a decision when the time comes, but here and until we return to the Kingdom, I am in charge and this man will stay alive,” replies Tadej firmly and resolutely.

"Fine, but you should remember that the war won't be won by keeping our enemies' best men alive. You should be strong enough to make such decisions, but clearly you're not!"

🔥🔥🔥

Tadej stares at the young man with fascination, unable to look away from the warrior's slender silhouette. He is gorgeous. Tadej finds something captivating in the young man's frozen features, like an ice sculpture carved with meticulous precision. The cold, majestic beauty of his face reminds Tadej of the snow-covered landscapes of the Kingdom of Gilendel, and its delicate lines radiate an icy serenity, like a frozen lake in the middle of winter. A striking beauty and icy elegance that contrasts with Tadej’s burning warmth.

In the depths of his being, Tadej felt that the man in front of him was more than just a soldier. Tadej saw something different in him, and Tadej’s intuition screamed at him that the man lying on the ground was not an enemy to be slaughtered. Tadej felt a strange connection with the young man, as if their souls were bound together.

🔥🔥🔥

"You're still young and idealistic Tadej, but you're going to learn that war requires sacrifice and difficult decisions."

"The pretext of war does not give you the right to violate our values and break all our rules!"

"In this case, let's make an exception: this man will talk, willingly or under torture, but he will talk, I will make sure of it, whatever the way, and your uncle will be grateful. "

Chapter Text

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Two days later, Tadej's apartment still echoes with the voices of Adam, Jasper, and Joao. They extended their stay in Monaco for one more evening to enjoy themselves one last time before training resumed. Training that Tadej will not be taking part in. The end of the season is ruined, and he still curses that thigh tear. 

Then the idea came naturally: “What if we invited Jonas?” They are desperate to meet the person who occupies their friend's thoughts so much. Tadej initially refused, categorically. He couldn't see Jonas getting involved in this kind of evening, not yet, not so soon. But his three friends insisted, using their usual stubbornness, and finally he gave in. Jonas accepted the invitation, almost shyly, and should be arriving soon.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Tadej looks seriously at his friends. “I'm warning you,” he said firmly, “I'll kill the first one who screws up or makes him uncomfortable.”
Jasper burst out laughing and raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Come on, Tadej... that's not our style at all!”

Tadej raises an eyebrow, feigning disbelief, and stares at him for a long moment. “Oh yeah? Are we talking about the same guys who bombarded me with questions for two days and didn't stop making fun of me?”

Adam and Joao snicker, unable to hide their amusement. Jasper defends himself awkwardly: “It was just friendly curiosity!”

“Friendly, my ass,” Tadej growls, shaking his head. But deep down, he can't help but smile, despite his growing nervousness. He feels his heart beat a little faster at the thought of Jonas arriving here, in his world, among his friends. It's a big step, in a way. A kind of unofficial introduction, and Tadej doesn't like to lose control of this kind of situation.

He even finds himself checking once again that everything is in order in the living room: the bottles are tidied away, the glasses are clean, the music isn't too loud. Everything has to be perfect so that Jonas doesn't feel judged. His friends are warm, of course, but sometimes too direct. And Tadej knows Jonas: the Dane hates feeling watched or pressured.

When he hears the intercom ring, Tadej jumps slightly. His gaze immediately darts to the door, then back to his three guests. “I'll remind you,” he repeats, his voice deeper, “no nonsense.”
Adam, Jasper, and Joao exchange knowing smiles, like three children promising not to touch the jam jar when their fingers are already covered in sugar.
Tadej sighs, shakes his head, and gets up to open the door for Jonas.

When he pulls the door open, he stands frozen for a moment. Jonas is there, standing in the doorway, and the sight almost takes his breath away. The Dane is wearing slim-fit black jeans, slightly worn at the knees, which hug his slender figure without weighing it down. His white T-shirt, disarmingly simple, contrasts with his pale skin and highlights the slenderness of his neck and the delicacy of his collarbones, which can be glimpsed beneath the fabric. A pair of dark Converse sneakers complete the outfit, understated and familiar, as if he had made no particular effort for this evening. But Tadej finds him magnificent.

Jonas stands there, straight but a little stiff, as if his body betrays a restraint he cannot hide. His blond hair, slightly tousled, catches the light from the hallway and seems to almost shine. His clear, limpid blue eyes rest on Tadej with a troubled intensity and that familiar fragility. 
Without thinking, guided by the impulse he feels every time he finds himself face to face with him, Tadej leans over and places a light kiss on his cold cheek. Jonas barely flinches, his cheeks flushing almost immediately, and yet he responds to his gesture. In a move that takes Tadej by surprise, he wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a brief embrace, pressing his face against his neck. His lips brush the Slovenian's throat with a quick, clumsy but terribly intimate kiss, so much so that Tadej shivers despite himself.

When he finally pulls away, Jonas keeps his eyes downcast for a moment, as if afraid he has dared too much. Tadej, on the other hand, smiles broadly and pulls him inside, sliding a protective arm around his back. He feels the tension under his fingers, the stiffness of a body that is not entirely at ease in this unfamiliar environment. So he leans in, his lips almost brushing his ear, and whispers softly, “If any of those jerks make you uncomfortable, tell me and I'll kill them.”

The warm breath against his skin elicits a nervous laugh from Jonas, and his already rosy cheeks flush a little more. Yet Tadej senses that he is relaxing slightly, allowing himself to be guided inside with less apprehension than when they arrived.

Tadej closes the door behind them and leads Jonas into the living room. Adam, Jasper, and Joao immediately stand up to greet him, broad smiles on their faces. Their expressions are friendly, but Tadej doesn't miss the twinkle of mischief in Jasper's eyes. Jasper raises an eyebrow, amused, before casting a meaningful glance at the Slovenian. Tadej, who has anticipated this, immediately gives him a discreet nudge in the ribs, hard enough to make him wince but not enough to attract Jonas's attention. Jasper stifles a laugh, and Tadej shoots him a murderous look that speaks volumes.

Very quickly, Tadej's friends surround Jonas and start asking him a thousand questions in a row, like three journalists eager to get a scoop. Jonas blushes slightly, taken aback, and Tadej immediately intervenes:

“Easy, guys, at least give him time to sit down!”

They burst out laughing and all take their places around the coffee table. Jonas, a little tense at first, sits down next to Tadej, his hands clasped in his lap. But the relaxed atmosphere, easy smiles, and jokes from his friends quickly break down his barriers. Tadej watches with quiet relief as the tension eases from his shoulders. Jonas gains confidence, and as the minutes pass, he seems more at ease, almost as if he had always been part of the group.
The conversation shifts to a lighter tone, and it is Jasper, true to form, who ends up making an awkward comment with a laugh:

“Honestly, Jonas, you must be the only guy in Europe who didn't recognize Tadej the first time you saw him. Seriously, you've never seen his face before?”

There is a split second of silence before Jonas looks up at him with a slight smile. His calm but firm voice rings out like a small victory:

“No, I didn't recognize him, and if it had been you walking into that bar, I wouldn't have had any problem, anyone would have  recognized you either!”

A burst of laughter shakes the room. Adam and Joao almost choke as they laugh so hard, while Jasper stands open-mouthed, unaccustomed to such quick wit.

“Well then, are you going to say anything? Tadej told me you were the strong-willed one in this group,” Jonas continues to tease.

Jasper is stunned by such confidence, while Adam and Joao laugh even harder, unable to stop. Tadej can't help but smile proudly. He can't help himself: he instinctively slips his arm around Jonas' waist, as if to show him that he is proud of him, that he fully accepts this complicity in front of the others.
Adam wipes away a tear of laughter and says between hiccups:

With a twinkle in his eye, Adam raises his beer again and, blowing his nose into his fist after laughing too hard, exclaims in a hoarse voice:

“No, but seriously, Tadej, keep your Dane. We all sign here, we love him!”

Jasper, feigning offense, shakes his head but can't hide his amused smile. Joao, for his part, leans toward Jonas, his laughing eyes shining behind his raised bottle:

“And managing to shut Jasper up in less than ten minutes, I swear, that's a monumental achievement. Jonas, welcome to the family!”

Jonas, taken aback by so much enthusiasm, blushes and lowers his eyes for a moment. Yet he can't help but smile. With his characteristic shyness, he raises his bottle and clinks it against Joao's, then against Adam's and Jasper's, under their approving and tender gazes.

The evening continues in a warm atmosphere, with bursts of laughter echoing through the apartment as if everyone had forgotten the time and the obligations that awaited them in a few days.

Jonas, who usually keeps to himself in groups he doesn't know, finds himself talking freely. His words flow with an ease he didn't know he had, encouraged by the sincere smiles and infectious energy of Tadej's friends. Each new anecdote shared by Adam or Joao made him burst out laughing, sometimes until his stomach hurt, and he was amused to discover a side of Tadej he didn't know: a clumsy teenage Tadej, an angry Tadej on his bike, a prankster Tadej at training camp. Jonas savors these stolen confidences, like pieces of a puzzle that help him understand a little more about the person standing beside him.

Sitting next to the Slovenian on the sofa, Jonas finally lets himself go completely, his shoulder sliding against his solid chest. Without hesitation, Tadej puts his arm around his waist, a protective gesture that seems natural, almost instinctive. Jonas feels the warmth of his hand on his back, and despite the presence of others, he doesn't try to sit up straight.

This contact reassures him, giving him the impression that he has found his place in this circle of friends.

“Look at this, Jonas!” Adam chuckles, handing his phone to the Dane, his face lit up with a broad smile. "Tadej complained throughout the entire training session that his shoe wasn't gripping the pedal. He had fitted new pedals himself the day before... and he used the wrong model!"

The video starts, and laughter erupts around them. We see Tadej, visibly upset, gesticulating as he tries to explain that everything is working fine, while his teammates collapse with laughter a few meters away from him.

“The mechanics made fun of him for the rest of the tour!” adds Adam, doubled over with tears in his eyes.

Everyone around them is laughing, except Tadej, who crosses his arms and pretends to sulk, a fake look of hurt on his face. His cheeks flush slightly, and he shoots a murderous glance at Adam, who laughs even harder when he sees his face.

“Yeah, well, I was young, okay!” Tadej tries to justify himself, his voice full of feigned annoyance.

“Oh yeah, young, of course!” Jasper sneers, picking up the phone again. "That was last year! I remember, I got the video!"

“Damn it, you fucking traitors!” Tadej growls, shocked, grabbing a pillow to throw at Jasper. “You showed it to everyone!” He ends up hiding in Jonas’s shoulder, who stifles a laugh against his hair.

But the Slovenian immediately straightens up, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Yeah, well, at least I didn't show up at a press conference with another team's sponsors on my back, huh, Jasper!”

The half-second silence is followed by a burst of laughter from everyone. Even Jasper, caught off guard, ends up bursting out laughing, shaking his head.

“Oh, that!” he says between laughs. “Okay, I'll give you that!”

Jonas looks at them, amused, as Adam almost chokes on his laughter, remembering the scene. It was at the very beginning of their professional careers. Jasper and Tadej had followed the riders of the peloton for an evening after a grand tour; the end of three weeks of effort that had to be celebrated. The alcohol had flowed freely, much more than it should have, and Jasper ended up losing his hotel room key.

Well, lost... or at least, unable to remember where he had put it.

So they ended up going back to Tadej's room together, still laughing hysterically, tripping over their own bags. Tadej still remembers how Jasper collapsed on the bed, unable to take off his shoes, before falling asleep across the mattress. Tadej had to push him aside so he could lie down without risking falling off the mattress at the slightest movement.

The next morning, Jasper woke up late for an important press conference. In a panic, he grabbed the first jacket he could find and rushed out without even looking. It was only once he was on stage, under the photographers' flashes, that he realized he was wearing Tadej's jacket—emblazoned with the UAE team logo.

“Oh my god, Jonas, you don't know this video?” exclaims Adam, already doubled over with laughter. "But it went viral on all the networks! The look on the journalists' faces when they saw Jasper show up in a UAE T-shirt!"

Jonas's eyes widened with curiosity as Adam hurriedly tapped on his phone screen. “Wait, wait, look at this,” he said, laughing, before handing him the device.
In the video, a young Jasper almost runs into a crowded press room. You can hear the hubbub stop abruptly as he hurriedly settles into his chair. The silence that follows is icy, a mixture of embarrassment and astonishment, then, slowly, the cameras zoom in on him. Jonas stifles a laugh when he notices the UAE logo clearly visible on his chest.

The Belgian, visibly panicked, begins to blush visibly. He stammers a few incomprehensible words into his microphone before turning his head hastily to the right, no doubt looking for his agent or an emergency exit. Tadej, sitting next to Jonas, bursts out laughing when he sees his friend's expression on the screen. He remembers it perfectly, that press conference, Jasper's panic, and especially the laughter that followed when he met up with his team at breakfast.

“Laugh, laugh,” Jasper grumbles, shaking his head, but he too ends up smiling. “I had a rough time! I thought my sports director was going to kill me!”

“And with good reason!” replies Jonas, laughing so hard he has tears in his eyes. “I'm no expert, but I don't think Alpecin was too happy to see you turn up in a UAE jacket!”

“And what's more, the jacket was ten times too small for him!” added Joae, giggling like a kid. “Look at that, it looks like he stole a junior's jersey! Look, he's completely squeezed into it!”

Laughter erupts again around the sofa. Tadej leans back, breathless, shaking with laughter. He replays the scene in his head: Jasper, cheeks flushed scarlet, trying unsuccessfully to hide the incriminating logo by pulling up the zipper.

“You must weigh at least ten kilos more than me, man!” Tadej exclaims, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That's not a jersey, it's a corset, your thing!”

“Shut up, Pogacar!” laughs Jasper, throwing a cushion in his direction.

The evening then passes without either of them realizing it, the bursts of laughter and clinking glasses blurring their perception of time. When they finally looked up at the clock in the living room, it was already past 11 p.m., and the warmth of the room contrasted with the night falling outside the windows. Jonas, snuggled up against Tadej, absentmindedly sipped the last few sips of his beer, his body relaxed but his mind floating in that familiar torpor of evenings that drag on forever. Jasper, suddenly seized by an impulse, suggests going to a nightclub, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his cheerful tone immediately sparking a debate among the group. Jonas tenses up, imperceptibly at first, then more noticeably, and his gaze clouds over: he has never liked these kinds of places, too noisy, too crowded, too foreign to his rhythm.

Tadej notices it immediately. The tension in his body is so obvious to him that he doesn't need a word. He leans over slightly and whispers in his ear that he doesn't have to come, that he'll stay with him if he doesn't feel like it. The promise, gentle and reassuring, warms Jonas for a moment, but Jasper is already insisting, and Joao and Adam, barely more sober than he is, exchange glances that betray their desire to go. Jonas bites the inside of his cheek, hesitates, then finally stammers that he doesn't have the right clothes anyway. Jasper bursts out laughing, theatrically, shaking his head as if he had just heard the most absurd line in the world.

"Dude, you'll be in the arms of Tadej Pogačar, aka the guy who won the last three Tours de France and I don't know how many other races! Club owners would pay to have him set foot in their establishments, so trust me, no one cares about your outfit!"

Tadej's cheeks flush red, and he rolls his eyes with an embarrassed sigh. “Shut up, Jasper,” he grumbles half-heartedly, which only elicits another laugh from the Belgian. Then he turns to

Jonas, looking for him. Despite the hesitation still visible in his clear eyes, Jonas finally nods, half-giving in to the general enthusiasm. The relief and gratitude he sees in Joao and Adam's eyes make him realize that he didn't really have the heart to deprive them of this pleasure.
Tadej then smiled, a frank, slightly childish smile, and announced that he was going to get changed. Jonas couldn't help but notice his current outfit, the black tracksuit and knee-high socks that looked out of place in this context and had nothing to do with what you would expect to see in a nightclub. The image made him smile despite himself.

A few minutes later, Tadej reappeared in the doorway of the hallway, and Jonas almost forgot to breathe. The white shirt he was wearing, slightly open at the collar, fell over his shoulders with an eye-catching suppleness. It was neither too tight nor too loose, just right to hint at the quiet strength of his body without ever overdoing it. The black pants that accompany the shirt extend his lines, and Jonas notices how much longer his legs look, as if each step stretches naturally.

He follows this simple movement with his eyes, the way Tadej occupies space without thinking about it, and his heart beats a little faster. His hair, which he has obviously combed in a hurry, remains slightly tousled, giving him a younger, almost carefree look. A rebellious strand of hair falls across his forehead, and Jonas feels that nothing could have been better placed. On his feet, a pair of black sneakers, simple and comfortable, not trying to impress but seeming to suit him better than any more formal shoes.

Everything is simple, and yet Jonas can't take his eyes off him. The light in the living room catches the pure white of his shirt, bringing out the warmth of his tanned skin and emphasizing the contrast with his light hair. Jonas feels his cheeks flush, aware that he is staring a little too intently, but unable to stop. It's not just Tadej's elegance that strikes him, but the way he fills the room, the way his presence captures all the light and seems to erase everything else.

Tadej holds a suit jacket in one hand, also black, whose impeccable cut betrays its luxury tailoring. Without a word, he hands it to Jonas, inviting him with a simple gesture to take it. Jonas hesitates, his fingers barely brushing the fabric before he discreetly notices the brand label sewn inside. The price he imagines is enough to make his throat tighten: three months of his salary would probably not be enough. He looks up at Tadej, troubled.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, almost ashamed to allow himself to wear such a garment.

The Slovenian simply smiles, a quiet smile that sweeps away all his hesitations. In response, he gently takes his hand and guides him into the jacket. Jonas lets himself be led, awkwardly, and immediately feels the fabric slide over his shoulders. The cut is slightly oversized, but the way it falls on his slim body gives his silhouette an unexpected elegance. For a second, Jonas looks at himself, uncertain, but Tadej watches him with such satisfaction that he forgets his doubts.

“Perfect,” the Slovenian whispers, his voice soft but confident. “You're perfect just like that.”

Jonas looks away, unable to hold the Slovenian's burning gaze any longer. He feels his cheeks flush, and his fingers tighten nervously on the lapel of the jacket. Tadej, as if nothing had happened, starts looking for his wallet and a pair of sunglasses lying nearby.

Jasper takes the opportunity to discreetly approach Jonas. Leaning toward him, he whispers in his ear with a smirk, “I don't think you'd even need that jacket to get our Pogui cock hard.”
Jonas freezes immediately, his eyes wide, and he almost chokes on his saliva, his cheeks flushing red at lightning speed. Adam, who heard the remark, immediately rolls his eyes before giving Jasper a sharp slap on the back of the head.

“Come on, can't you shut up for two minutes?” he growls, exasperated. “You sound like a fifteen-year-old.”

Jasper bursts out laughing, a loud laugh that echoes through the living room, without the slightest remorse. Joao, amused in spite of himself, raises his glass in their direction: “At this rate, we'll never get out, because we'll have to calm Jasper down first.”

“Good luck,” adds Adam, shaking his head. “Not even a wall of concrete could stop him.”

Jasper laughs even louder, satisfied with causing trouble, while Jonas, still crimson, clutches the sides of his jacket around him as if to protect himself from prying eyes. Tadej, returning to them, gives him a brief but meaningful look, and this simple exchange of glances is enough to ease the Dane's discomfort a little.

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A few minutes later, they leave the apartment amid a hubbub of laughter and overlapping voices, with Jasper improvising as master of ceremonies, waving his phone to show that he has ordered a taxi. The ride is electric, with jokes flying over the loud music and memories of past parties, and Jonas, leaning against the door, observes more than he participates, his gaze regularly drawn to Tadej's profile sitting next to him.

The vehicle finally stops in front of the illuminated entrance to one of Monaco's most famous nightclubs. The façade is bursting with energy, music is already filtering through the walls, and a dense crowd is packed in front of the security ropes. Jonas stands motionless on the sidewalk for a moment, impressed by the commotion that is so unlike him. Jasper, on the other hand, wore a mischievous smile and stepped forward without hesitation. He grabbed Tadej by the shoulders and pushed him forward slightly, saying cheerfully, “Pogui, it's up to you: go for it!”

Tadej laughed, a small chuckle, and replied, “You know, I'm really offended that you're using me like this to get into a nightclub.” The others burst out laughing, and even Jonas can't help but smile. Tadej then approaches the security guards, exchanges a few words, and within seconds the barriers open and they are waved in. Jonas understands at a glance that, in this kind of situation, being called Tadej Pogačar opens doors faster than he could ever imagine. 

Jonas can't help but compare Tadej to Mikkel for a moment. The latter must be used to this kind of situation, used to doors being opened for him effortlessly, to privileges being handed to him without him having to lift a finger. But Jonas shakes his head nervously, as if to chase the thought away. How could he even think of putting them in the same category? Tadej is nothing like Mikkel. Every victory, every accolade, the Slovenian has earned with his own hands, through sacrifice, endless training, and unwavering determination. Nothing has ever been handed to him, nothing has ever been based on a name or family fortune. Everything he has today, he has earned through hard work.

Jasper, Adam, and Joao quicken their pace, euphoric, eager to blend into the atmosphere. Jonas, on the other hand, walks more slowly, his heart heavy, his senses already overwhelmed by the bright lights and bass notes that echo onto the sidewalk. Tadej stops, turns around, and waits for him. He puts a reassuring arm around his waist, a simple, confident gesture, as if he knows exactly what it takes to calm his nerves. Leaning toward him, he whispers in his ear, his voice low, almost tender: “If you don't feel comfortable, just tell me and we'll leave.”
Jonas looks up at him, surprised by this attention, and smiles shyly. “You don't need to worry about me,” he whispers, embarrassed to feel so transparent. But Tadej shakes his head with a smile, his eyes shining with gentle determination. “I'll always worry about you.”

He punctuates his sentence with a mischievous wink, then, in a gesture that seems almost choreographed, he takes out his sunglasses and slips them over his nose, despite the night. The movement elicits a laugh from Jasper, who has turned around to watch them, and Jonas, flustered, feels himself blushing once again. Tadej takes the opportunity to grab his hand, intertwining their fingers with quiet confidence. The gesture is both natural and surprising, and Jonas, despite his embarrassment, does not push him away. On the contrary, he lets himself be guided, as if this hand in his were enough to reassure him.

They walk through the doors of the club and immediately a wave of sensations assaults Jonas. The air is saturated with heat and mingled scents, a mixture of sweat, sweet alcohol, and perfumes of all kinds floating in the atmosphere. The music, heavy and insistent, beats like a gigantic heart, and each bass note resonates in his chest, making his whole body vibrate. Strobe lights swept across the room in rapid succession, flashing red, blue, and purple, creating a moving, surreal backdrop where faces distorted, disappeared, and reappeared to the beat of the music.

Around them, the crowd is dense, a sea of bodies pressed tightly together, swaying and dancing in a chaotic choreography. Shoulders brush against shoulders, elbows bump into elbows, and Jonas, clumsy in this human tide, moves forward with the constant feeling of being out of place, of walking in the wrong place. He apologizes in half-words when he brushes against a foot or bumps into an arm, but no one hears him, and he feels almost engulfed by this human tide swaying unrestrainedly.

Next to him, the others seem perfectly at ease. Jasper is already laughing, letting himself be carried away by the music as if he knew every note in advance; Adam and Joao exchange knowing glances, their faces lit up by the flashing lights. Jonas, on the other hand, is short of breath. The feeling of suffocation takes hold of him from the very first few meters, his temples buzzing to the beat of the bass, and his heart tightening with discomfort. Then, almost instinctively, his fingers tighten a little more around Tadej's hand, seeking a stable anchor in the turmoil.

Tadej, as if he had anticipated this, guides him through the crowd with quiet ease. He gently cuts through the sea of people, one sure step after another, as if the chaos around them does not affect him. Jonas lets himself be carried along, following his movements, clinging to his reassuring presence. With every move Tadej makes, he feels his shoulder brush against his, and this minimal contact is enough to remind him that he is not alone, that someone is making sure he doesn't get lost in the confusion.

One of the privileges of accompanying Tadej Pogačar quickly becomes apparent: a club agent leads them through a side corridor to the VIP area. There, the space finally opens up, the noise seems a little less overwhelming, and the crowd less dense. Jonas takes a deep breath, as if he has just resurfaced after being held underwater. The low benches and tables laden with bottles and glasses sparkle under the dimmer lights, and the place, although noisy, suddenly seems breathable to him.
Tadej smiles, at ease, as if he knows this setting by heart. Jasper is already slumping down on a bench, Adam shakes his head and laughs, and Joao gives Jonas a knowing wink, as if to remind him that he is now part of the circle. Jonas, still a little tense, settles in slowly, but his gaze immediately returns to Tadej, unable to tear himself away from him.

A waiter soon places several bottles of various alcoholic beverages on the coffee table, glasses clink, and Jasper raises his in a theatrical gesture. They all toast together, and Jonas, carried away by the collective energy, lets himself be swept along, drinking in small sips, as if to prove to himself that he can be part of the game. Laughter erupts, the music is in full swing, and for a moment they remain grouped together, protected in their semi-isolated circle. But very quickly, Jasper leads Adam and Joao to the dance floor, caught up in the music and the urge to dance, leaving the space half empty.

The respite is short-lived. Insistent glances turn toward their table, and soon strangers begin to approach. Jonas watches them casually cross the invisible line that separated their corner from the rest of the club. Jasper, who has returned for a moment, lets them in without thinking, too busy laughing and waving at the waiter. In just a few minutes, the place that still seemed breathable becomes almost as crowded as the main room. Glasses clink, conversations overlap, and Jonas finds himself pressed against the back of the bench, already overwhelmed by this forced proximity.

Jasper, on the other hand, seems to be thriving amid the chaos. Numerous women, their curves accentuated by tight dresses, surround him, laughing at his jokes and pressing themselves against him. The Belgian is clearly enjoying himself, savoring the attention he is receiving, and Adam and Joao, who have stayed nearby, burst out laughing when they see him playing the seducer as if he were on stage. The spectacle is noisy and colorful, only emphasizing the contrast with Jonas, who withdraws further, a spectator in a world where he cannot find his place.

But it's not Jasper who catches his eye. A few steps away, Tadej, true to form, unwittingly attracts the same wave of attention. Two young women have approached him, one placing a light hand on his arm, the other leaning so close to his ear that her hair brushes his cheek. Others follow, as if drawn by the light he radiates, and soon he finds himself surrounded, caught in a circle of smiles, laughter too close for comfort, and insistent glances. Tadej smiles, even laughs, responding with apparent ease, his composure echoing the joyful chaos around them.
Jonas, on the other hand, feels a strange twinge in his chest. He doesn't really understand why, or rather, he doesn't dare admit it. He tries to tell himself that it's ridiculous, that there's nothing to see, that Tadej is just being polite. But he hates this scene, hates seeing all these hands reaching out to him, these shoulders brushing against him, these voices trying to be heard so close to his ear. He looks away, stares at his still-full glass, tries to drown this discomfort in a smile that rings false. 

Yet with every burst of laughter that reaches him, his heart tightens a little more, as if something inside him refuses to accept this sharing.

Tadej then allows himself to be led away by one of the women. She immediately presses herself against him, her body following his every movement with disconcerting confidence. Her hands slide down his arms, lingering on his shoulders as if to test their strength, then move down to his waist, which she grabs to pull herself even closer. Jonas sees her pelvis moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm, seeking to wedge itself against Tadej's, her hips rubbing against his in a way that is anything but innocent. She laughs in his ear, her lips so close that Jonas feels they could touch them at any moment, and her sweet, heady perfume must be mingling with Tadej's warm, familiar scent. She tilts her head, her hair caressing his cheek, and whispers a few words that he cannot hear, but which seem intended to awaken an exclusive complicity. Jonas sees her hands brush his chest over his shirt, moving up to his open collar, and he looks away for a split second, the scene seeming unbearable to him.

He is so absorbed by what he sees that he doesn't immediately notice Jasper approaching. The Belgian's heavy hand suddenly falls on his shoulder and Jonas almost chokes on the sip of cocktail he has just taken. He coughs violently, gasping for air, and glares at Jasper. The latter, hilarious, doubles over, his thunderous laughter almost drowning out the music.

“Stop staring at people like that, you look like a psychopath!” he shouts in his ear, his face red and his eyes shining with alcohol.

Jonas opens his mouth to reply, but Jasper, already on a roll, laughs even harder and continues, even louder: “Tell me, you've known Pogui for weeks and he never told you he's as gay as a rainbow jersey in the middle of a peloton.”

Jonas blushes visibly, blood rushing to his cheeks. He doesn't know whether to be shocked by the words or by the truth they contain, and he simply grips his glass tighter so as not to betray his trembling hands. Jasper bursts out laughing again, delighted with his effect, and Jonas realizes that he's going to have to get used to the Belgian's legendary lack of tact.

“What you're seeing are videos that are going to end up on social media, and everyone will think Tadej is sleeping with a bunch of girls!”

“Huh, and, um...”

Jasper doesn't give him time to think any further. Fuck, he must be so drunk that he is not even abble to build correct sentence.  With a sudden movement, he grabs his wrist and pulls him along roughly. "Come on, come on!" he shouts, laughing, dragging him through the crowd. Jonas protests weakly, but the noise of the music drowns out his voice, and he doesn't have the strength to resist his grip. In a matter of seconds, he finds himself thrown into the middle of the dance floor, jostled by moving bodies, dragged back against his will to where Tadej is still dancing.

The Belgian, true to form, doesn't waste a second. He stands in front of the young woman who continues to cling to Tadej and, in a loud voice that pierces the noise, shouts, "Excuse me, but could you go shake your booty somewhere else? My buddy has prettier and firmer ones to fondle! Thanks!"

Before Jonas can understand what's going on, Jasper pushes the young woman aside with astonishing nonchalance, leaving her stunned, her eyes wide with outrage, as he pulls Jonas, mortified, over to Tadej. The Belgian punctuates his gesture with a knowing wink, a victorious smile stretching across his lips, then immediately disappears into the crowd, as if he had just delivered a gift he had no intention of taking back.

Jonas doesn't have time to react, his mind still drowning in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, when he already feels Tadej's hands on his hips. Without a word, the Slovenian pulls him close with quiet confidence, their bodies pressed together in a gesture that sweeps away any hesitation. Jonas feels the warmth of his chest against his own, the firm pressure of his fingers preventing him from escaping, and the noise of the room suddenly fades as if the world has shrunk around them.

Tadej smiles, a smile he can guess at the corner of his lips even in the dim light of the changing lights, and he leans close to his ear, so close that Jonas shivers as he feels his breath brush his skin. “Jonas, come dance with me.”

Jonas swallows hard, his heart beating too fast, and manages to stammer awkwardly, “I... I'm not a good dancer.” Everything in him screams that he wants to get away, that he's not cut out for this crowd, for this heat, but Tadej tightens his embrace a little more, and in his eyes there is nothing mocking, only that soft glow that disarms all his resistance.

“Come on,” he whispers in an almost pleading voice, his lips just inches from his ear, “please dance with me.”

Jonas rolls his eyes, trying to keep his composure, but he can already feel his defenses crumbling. That imploring look, that tender smile on Tadej's face, is a combination he simply cannot resist. He finally gives in, and immediately a bright smile lights up the Slovenian's face. Without waiting, Tadej pulls him even closer, pressing his body against his in a closeness that gives Jonas a new, burning, and unsettling warmth, but one he no longer tries to escape.

Suddenly, the DJ switches to a sultry reggaeton track, one of those slow, hypnotic songs that turn every movement into an invitation to get closer. The bass resonates in Jonas' chest, pushing him against his will to synchronize his breathing to this foreign beat. He shakes his head in panic.

“Tadej, I don't know how to dance!” he shouts, his voice trembling, already trying to break free. But the Slovenian's hand holds him back, firm and gentle at the same time, and with a smooth movement, he spins him around so that his chest is pressed against his back. Jonas freezes immediately, feeling the solid frame of his body molding itself against his own.

Tadej's hands slowly slide from his shoulders to his hips, leaving a burning trail on his skin despite the fabric of his T-shirt. Jonas feels as if each touch leaves an invisible mark, as if a diffuse heat settles where his fingers rest. Then Tadej's deep voice brushes his ear.

“Follow my rhythm.”

Jonas closes his eyes for a moment, unable to respond. Their bodies begin to sway together, in a calculated slowness, Tadej's hips guiding his, his precise movements forcing Jonas to abandon all resistance. Their pelvises touch at times, in a steady rhythm that sends uncontrollable shivers through him.

When Tadej buries his face in the crook of his neck, Jonas feels warm breath caressing his skin, immediately punctuated by fleeting kisses, barely touching, as if placed there secretly. He tilts his head involuntarily, offering more space, as if his body had made the decision before his mind. His stomach tightens under this succession of touches, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

His hands, at first tense, finally give way. They slide down his sides until they rest on Tadej's, clinging to his waist. In a timid but irrepressible gesture, Jonas interlaces their fingers. Immediately, a wave of heat washes over him, a feeling of both security and dizziness, as if he had just crossed a line he had always forbidden himself to cross.

Jonas closes his eyes, unable to resist any longer, and lets himself be carried away by the heavy rhythm of the music. Each beat resonates in his body, each vibration seems to be transmitted from Tadej to him through the simple contact of their linked hands. The Slovenian's lips move down his neck, planting longer, more intense kisses, until he begins to hum a few words against his skin, his deep voice resonating like an intimate confession. Jonas feels his knees weaken for a moment, his senses overwhelmed, and he clings to Tadej more tightly, as if it were the only way to keep from sinking into this delicious vertigo.

The songs follow one after another, each more captivating than the last, and little by little the rest of the world fades away. Jonas no longer hears the laughter around him or the bursts of voices echoing through the room, he no longer sees the silhouettes jostling and swaying. All that remains is this body against his, this scent he now knows, this smile he can guess even without looking at it. When Adam and Joao finally return, followed by Jasper who calls out to them loudly, they are forced to separate, but they don't really break their closeness. Their hands remain half-linked, their shoulders continue to brush against each other, and the air between them still retains the warmth of this overly intimate dance.

Jonas finds himself no longer thinking, letting go of the barriers that usually imprison him. He dances, awkwardly at times, but without trying to hold back, because he sees Tadej smiling. And that smile is worth all the justifications, all the excuses he could give himself.

After a long time on the dance floor, Jonas finally feels the need to step away. His breath is short, his heart is still beating too fast, and the intensity of Tadej's closeness is starting to make him dizzy. He gently steps away, under the surprised gaze of the Slovenian. Jonas forces a smile and slips away, loud enough to cover the music: I'll be right back, I'm just going to the toilet."
Tadej doesn't hold him back, but he moves close enough to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Jonas can still feel the warmth of that touch as he turns away. He pushes his way through the dense crowd, jostled by shoulders, brushed by hands, and with every step he takes, he feels himself suffocating a little more. The air, saturated with sweat, alcohol, and heavy perfumes, sticks to his skin, and he quickens his pace to reach the quieter hallway leading to the restrooms.

Inside, the contrast is striking. The restrooms are almost empty, only crossed by the distant rumble of bass echoing off the walls. Jonas approaches the sink, runs cool water over his hands, and leans over for a moment, staring at his reflection in the stained mirror. His cheeks are still flushed, his eyes shine with a fever he prefers not to analyze, and he tries to catch his breath, inhaling deeply as if to regain some control.

That's when a familiar voice rises behind him, shattering the fragile calm he was building. “Vingegaard, if there's one place we didn't expect to see you, it would be here!”

Jonas gasps... Not him... Not that... Not now, not here.

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That's when a familiar voice rings out behind him, shattering the fragile calm he was trying to build. “Vingegaard, if there's one place we thought we wouldn't run into you, it would be here!”

Jonas straightens up abruptly, water still dripping from his fingers, and turns around sharply. His gaze froze instantly. In front of him, leaning casually against the wall, stood Mikkel, a wicked smile playing on his lips. Behind him, three of his friends watched the scene, amused, their arms crossed as if they were about to enjoy a show.

Jonas swallows and his stomach tightens. He should have known he was likely to run into Mikkel here. Of course this is the kind of place Mikkel frequents, loud, flashy, saturated with alcohol and ego. He clenches his jaw and decides to cut it short. “Leave me alone, Mikkel.” His voice was dry, deliberately sharp, but he could already feel the ground shaking beneath his feet.

He tried to walk away, circling around the sink, but a rough hand grabbed his wrist. Before he could protest, his body was thrown backward. The impact was violent, his back hitting the edge of the cabinet, and he couldn't help but grimace. The cold of the tile under his fingers contrasts with the pain already pulsing in his kidneys.

Mikkel approaches slowly, like a predator certain of its prey, and Jonas feels panic wash over him, an icy wave running up his spine. He also notices Mikkel's slightly reddened eyes, a sign of his drunkenness. “You don't just walk into a place like this,” he says in a falsely light tone, his smile widening with malice. Then he leans in a little, bringing his face closer to Jonas's. “So tell me, who's paying you to be a whore tonight?”

Jonas clenches his teeth so hard that his jaws ache. “No one. Let me go.” His voice is meant to be firm, but it trembles slightly, and he knows it, which makes Mikkel burst out laughing.

“Do you really think you belong here?” he continues, his tone lower, more venomous. “Look at yourself... You have nothing to do here except entertain a rich guy, right?” His hand tightens around Jonas’s wrist, twisting his joints until he feels a sharp pain shoot up his arm. Jonas groans involuntarily and pulls back, but the grip is too firm.

“Stop...” he whispers, his voice broken. “You're hurting me.”

Mikkel sneers, his eyes shining with unhealthy satisfaction. He pushes him back against the sink again, his shoulder hitting the mirror, which vibrates from the impact. Jonas squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily, and tries once more to free himself.

 “Mikkel, stop, please... you're hurting me, let me go!”

But the other boy is enjoying himself more and more. His fingers dig into his flesh, his movements become rougher, each one designed to break down his defenses. Jonas repeats several times, almost mechanically: “You're hurting me, stop...” But Mikkel doesn't let up, his laughter echoing in the confined space of the bathroom, a laugh that chills Jonas' blood as much as the pain twisting his arm.

“I'm sure it's the cyclist from the other day...” Mikkel says mockingly, his eyes shining with malice. "Pogacar, right? Are you his personal whore?"

Jonas shakes his head, his throat tight, and manages to reply in a muffled voice: “I don't sell my body for money, it's not true... let go of me.”

The response triggers Mikkel's hilarity as he snickers, leaning even closer to him, his breath heavy with alcohol. “Not true? I beg to differ! And yet look at yourself, who would get hard looking at your body?”

The words hit harder than the gestures, and Jonas feels his eyes mist over despite himself, his throat tightening until he can hardly breathe. Why does it hurt so much to hear that? 

No words come. He is frozen, unable to respond, and his panic rises another notch when Mikkel moves a little closer, his shadow growing on the wall behind him.

He presses Jonas a little harder against the wall, the icy surface knocking against Jonas's shoulder blades, who lets out a strangled cry. Mikkel's massive body presses against his, almost crushing him, preventing him from breathing. Jonas feels the hardness of the wall against his back, the crushing pressure on his chest, and his hands shake uselessly, unable to push away his attacker, who is still holding his wrist.

His breathing becomes ragged. His heart pounding, he feels Mikkel's hips pressing against his. He feels dizzy. No, no, not that. He turns pale when the other hand slides down to his waist, grabs the fabric of his shirt, and tries to slip underneath it to touch his skin. The sensation of the fabric lifting, of foreign fingers brushing his hip, makes him nauseous.

Nothing like Tadej's gentle, reassuring touch.

“What are you doing! Mikkel, stop, don't touch me!” Her voice trembles, breaks. The words tumble out, clumsy, pleading.

“Come on, tell me...” Mikkel continues venomously, his hot breath against his face. “What's so special about you that he wants you, huh?” His hand continues to explore his body against his

will, moving up and down like a threat.

“No... I... nothing... please, stop, back off!” Jonas is almost sobbing, his voice strangled. He tries to twist away from him, but Mikkel holds him even tighter.

“Why?” Mikkel sneers, leaning in, his lips inches from his ear. “I'm sure when it's Pogačar, you don't say no.”

The sentence hits him like a slap in the face. Jonas freezes, his eyes wide, his stomach knotting in pain. Mikkel's hips press harder against his. He can smell him, feel his breath, everything he hates. A sudden wave of nausea washes over him. He's going to throw up.

“It's the last straw,” Mikkel spits, his voice full of contempt. “The guy is a legend in his sport, known all over the world. He can fuck whoever he wants, and yet he chooses Vingegaard as his whore?”

He laughs, a dry laugh, devoid of emotion. “Look at yourself... who would get hard looking at your body?”

The words hit Jonas like blows. He wants to respond, to say something, anything, but his throat is tight. Blood pounds in his temples, his breathing is ragged. He lowers his head, unable to face Mikkel's hateful gaze. His fingers tremble as he clings to the wall behind him, as if the cold contact could keep him from sinking.

“The cyclist in question isn't the type to sleep with whores.”

The voice behind them booms like thunder. Mikkel freezes. Jonas suddenly raises his head, his heart pounding, and his eyes widen as he recognizes Jasper. He walks toward them with a determined stride, his face impassive, a far cry from his usual charming smile. His dark eyes flash with anger.

“And I believe he's told you several times to let go,” he growls. “So you're going to take your hands off his body and back off. Right now.”

His tone leaves no room for discussion. Before Mikkel can even open his mouth, Jasper moves closer, grabs his shoulder roughly, and pulls him back with a strength Jonas would never have imagined him capable of. Mikkel staggers, surprised, while Jasper immediately steps between them, a firm hand on Jonas's hip as if to make sure he stays upright.

“Don't you ever touch or even talk to someone like that again,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly with anger. “Especially not someone who matters to my friends.”

He pauses, his hard gaze fixed on Mikkel's. “Because believe me, Pogačar has always had good taste. If you think he'd waste his time with a pathetic guy like you, you're dreaming. When he hangs out with someone, it's because that person is really worth it.”

Jasper catches his breath, his fists still clenched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Jonas stands frozen behind him, his body trembling, unable to speak. It all happened too fast. The adrenaline is still churning in his stomach. He feels Jasper's hand on him, solid, reassuring.

“Then do me a favor,” Jasper concludes in a cold, almost calm tone, which makes the threat all the more real. “And get out of here. Because between us...” He flashes a joyless smile, his eyes flashing a final warning. "If Pogačar is a legend, I'm just a brute. And right now, I'm drunk. And believe me, that hurts even more."

Mikkel narrows his eyes, his lips twisting into a nasty sneer, but he quickly realizes he's no match for Jasper. Jasper, massive and ready to use force, stands before him with brutal confidence, his arm around Jonas's shoulders as if to mark his territory. For a moment, the silence is almost suffocating, broken only by the muffled bass from the club echoing through the walls. Then Mikkel lets out a contemptuous breath, glares at Jonas one last time, and spits through his teeth, “I'm not done with you, Vingegaard.”

Jonas shivers despite himself, his fingers still trembling around his sore wrist. But the look Jasper gives Mikkel is enough: cold, sharp, a silent promise of retaliation. Mikkel finally raises his hands in a gesture of feigned helplessness, takes a few steps back, then disappears with his friends, the door slamming behind them.

Silence falls immediately. Jonas lets out a long sigh, almost a stifled sob, and bites his lip hard to hold back the tears that threaten to spill. His shoulders slump, the full weight of his pent-up fear suddenly bearing down on him. Jasper turns to him, and his expression changes dramatically. Behind his mask of bravado and drunkenness, his eyes shine with sincere concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than usual. “And who were those guys?”

Jonas swallows hard, his breath still short. The words get stuck in his throat. He doesn't know how to answer, he doesn't want to answer. Shame burns in his gut. He has never told Tadej what

Mikkel has been doing to him since he got here. The very idea of admitting it seems insurmountable. So he lowers his eyes and mumbles, almost inaudibly, “It's nothing... don't worry.”

“Nothing,” exclaims Jasper, incredulous, “but Jonas, you saw how that jerk talked to you!” His voice echoes off the tiled walls, a mixture of anger and indignation that doesn't quite suit him.

Jonas looks away, staring at the floor so as not to break under Jasper's gaze. He stammers awkwardly, searching for a way out: “It's okay... it was just... a guy from my class, before. We had a... a disagreement, that's all.”

But Jasper isn't fooled. His expression hardens, his tone becomes serious. "Jonas, I... I went to school. And believe me, I've seen this kind of thing before. It's not just a simple disagreement, is it? It's more than that, isn't it?"

Jonas stiffens, unable to meet Jasper's gaze.
Jasper continues, more gently this time, but without letting up. “If those guys are picking on you, it's not your fault. You haven't done anything wrong to deserve this.”
Jonas feels tears welling up in his eyes, burning, ready to spill, but he refuses to let them fall. His throat tightens, his shoulders shake slightly, and he turns his head away from Jasper's gaze.

 His voice trembling, he finally stammers, “I... no... I... I can take it, it's nothing. I'm used to it, but... I... Tadej doesn't know. I haven't told him anything. I... Jasper, please... keep this to yourself...”

A heavy silence follows his words, interrupted only by the distant bass notes that make the walls vibrate. Jasper grimaced, as if what he was hearing made him want to scream, but he was tactful enough not to press the issue. He sighed, placed a firm but friendly hand on Jonas's shoulder, and lowered his voice slightly. "Listen, if you have a problem, you don't have to be ashamed. You can talk about it. And even though we haven't known each other for long, you matter to Tadej. And if you matter to him, you matter to me too."
He pauses, his eyes locked on Jonas's, then adds, “And I'm sure of one thing: you could talk to Tadej about it. He won't judge you. Ever.”

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Chapter Text

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When they rejoin the others, Jonas feels like he left a piece of himself in that bathroom. His hands are still shaking, his heart is pounding, and he doesn't really feel like partying anymore. Still, he forces himself to smile when he catches Tadej's eye, as if this fragile mask could protect him. But the Slovenian isn't fooled. He approaches slowly, his gaze seeking Jonas's, and asks in a low, almost tender voice, “Are you okay?”

Jonas nods a little too quickly, forces a smile onto his lips, and replies, “Yes... I'm just tired.”

Tadej watches him for a moment longer, as if trying to read beyond the words, but decides not to press the issue. He simply places a light hand on his back and whispers, “Then we won't stay much longer.”

They linger a little longer, waiting for Jasper to finish another drink and for Adam and Joao to wrap up their lively conversation, then the group finally leaves the nightclub. The cool air outside slaps Jonas in the face, sending a welcome shiver through him after the stifling humidity inside. He mechanically takes out his phone to order a taxi, but Tadej gently takes his wrist and suggests, “Do you want to come sleep at my place?”

Jonas hesitates, his eyes downcast, torn between an irrepressible desire to accept and the fear of being an intruder. Before he can answer, Jasper intervenes with his legendary tact, his voice loud and cheerful: “Oh come on Jonas, don't break his heart, he'll cry all night if you do!”

Tadej rolls his eyes and replies sharply, “Shut up, Jasper.”

The scene elicits a burst of laughter from Jonas, a genuine one this time, light and sincere. He finally gives in and whispers, “Okay... fine. As long as I don't have to share a bed with Jasper, I'm good!”

The Belgian immediately looks outraged, placing a hand on his chest as if he had just been betrayed, which triggers a general fit of laughter. In this newfound lightheartedness, they all climb into the taxi together, crammed up against each other.
Jonas sits in the back and feels Tadej move closer to him. The Slovenian snuggles up without a word, resting his head on his shoulder, his body relaxing as if this gesture were the most natural thing in the world. Jonas feels his brown hair brush against his skin, a light caress that makes him shiver despite the heat.

He gently turns his head and meets his gaze. In the dim light of the cabin, Tadej's eyes shine with an almost childlike gentleness. He smiles at him, a tender, intimate smile, and Jonas's heart skips a beat. He is beautiful, so beautiful that Jonas forgets to breathe. He doesn't know what comes over him, but he leans over and kisses him on the forehead. Tadej immediately closes his eyes and leans slightly into the contact, as if to prolong it. In a barely audible whisper, in Slovenian, he murmurs, “Mislim, da sem zaljubljen vate...”

Jonas doesn't understand the words, but he feels his heart racing strangely. The taxi finally stops in front of Tadej's building, and the suspended moment evaporates in a burst of loud laughter from Jasper, who tries to get out of the vehicle without really managing to keep his balance. Joao catches him by the arm, Adam pushes from behind, and Tadej, shaking with laughter that he tries in vain to stifle, urges them to be quiet. “You're going to wake up the whole building!” he repeats several times, but Jasper continues to sing a half-wrong melody he makes up as he staggers into the lobby.

They manage to make their way back to the apartment, Jasper nearly falling several times. Tadej and Adam are almost forced to carry Jasper, who collapses under his own weight as soon as he feels the mattress of one of the guest rooms beneath him. Tadej, laughing hysterically, turns to Adam and declares with feigned seriousness, “Good luck, buddy, you're the one sleeping with him!” Then, straightening up, he adds without hesitation, “I'll keep Jonas with me, and Joao, you can have the small bed in the other room.”

Adam rolls his eyes, exhausted but amused. “No way, I already have to carry this drunk pile of muscles, and now I have to sleep next to him? Joao, come help me move him, we'll lock him in the small bed, he'll do less damage there!”

“Considering how loudly he snores when he's drunk, we'd better lock him up on the terrace!” retorts Joao.

Adam bursts out laughing and complies, pulling Jasper by his legs while Joao pushes from the other side. The Belgian, oblivious to the comedy he inspires, is already half asleep, one arm dangling and almost hitting the door. Tadej shakes his head, amused, and takes advantage of the distraction to pull Jonas with him, intertwining their fingers.
The Dane smiles despite himself, his heart still pounding, but he lets himself be led without protest to Tadej's bedroom.

They cross the threshold and Jonas discovers a room that reflects the Slovenian's personality: sober and minimalist, yet strangely welcoming. The light-colored walls reflect the soft light from a lamp on a light wood bedside table, and the large bed is covered with a plain gray sheet, impeccably pulled tight. A few books lie on a low cabinet, alongside a pair of headphones and a pair of abandoned sunglasses. Everything seems to be in its place, without anything superfluous, but the whole room exudes a calm, almost soothing atmosphere.

Jonas, standing near the door, suddenly feels a little uncomfortable. They have spent hours together over the past few weeks, surely too many for Jonas to count, sharing meals, confidences, and even silences that were not at all heavy. Yet tonight is different. Spending the night together, even without any promises, seems like a step he hadn't anticipated. Jonas can't silence the voice in his head asking, “Why would he waste his time with you?” " His breath is shorter, and he wonders if he shouldn't have found an excuse to go home.

Tadej, on the other hand, doesn't seem the least bit troubled. With his usual naturalness, he grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off with a simple gesture, letting it fall onto a chair. Jonas's gaze then slides involuntarily over the Slovenian's chest, over his pale skin, the tan lines that highlight the muscles sculpted by years of effort, over his lean shoulders that seem ready to carry anything, and lower down, over his powerful thighs, which are further emphasized by his gray sweatpants.

Jonas wanted to look away, to compose himself, but he couldn't. His gaze lingered on the Slovenian's body, fascinated despite himself. But Tadej finally noticed, and a cheeky smile stretched across his lips. 

“Like the view?” he asked, amused.

Jonas jumped, caught red-handed. Shame immediately rises to his cheeks, but he refuses to let himself be thrown off balance so easily. “You're dreaming,” he replies, his ears scarlet, trying to sound curt.

The Slovenian, delighted to have found a weakness, takes a step forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You could even touch it if you want.”

This time, Jonas feels his stomach knot and his heart beat faster than it should. The words unsettle him so much that he can't think of anything to say in response. To hide his confusion, he grabs the nearest pillow and throws it directly at Tadej, hitting him squarely in the head. “Not even in your dreams!” he exclaims, his voice higher pitched than he would have liked.
Tadej bursts out laughing, a hearty laugh that echoes in the sober, empty room. He shakes the pillow with his hands before throwing it carelessly onto the bed. “That's too bad,” he says, feigning disappointment, “because you're missing out.”

Jonas shakes his head, torn between the urge to laugh and the urge to disappear into the ground. But despite himself, a smile finally appears on his lips, betraying the strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure that Tadej's teasing provokes.

Jonas finally grabs the clothes Tadej has taken out of his closet and lent him for the night. Jonas begins to change, a little awkward under the Slovenian's insistent gaze. “Stop staring at me like that,” he whispers, taking off his shirt.

“I can hardly help it,” replies Tadej, with a smirk. “You're giving me quite a view.”

Jonas rolls his eyes. “You're just saying that because you're drunk.”

“Not at all,” insists Tadej. “Drunk or not, I can see exactly what I'm looking at. And believe me, I like what I see.”

Jonas shakes his head, laughing nervously, and grabs the T-shirt Tadej has taken out for him, a loose-fitting garment that retains the familiar scent of the Slovenian. As he puts it on, he smells that scent he would recognize anywhere, a subtle blend of laundry detergent and body heat, and he finds himself breathing more deeply.

“You know,” Tadej continues, never taking his eyes off him, “if you wanted to see how attractive I find you, all you have to do is reach out your hand.”

Jonas rolls his eyes. “If I wanted muscles to admire, I could ask Jasper.”

Tadej bursts out laughing and flops down on the bed. “Are you kidding? Jasper is all bulk. Me, I'm all efficiency. Take a look: zero fat, all power. You won't find better.”
Jonas sighs, grabs a pair of socks, and puts them on, muttering, “You're impossible.”

“And you love it,” Tadej replies immediately, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Jonas doesn't answer, but his smile betrays him. When he finally joins him in bed, he does so with a certain reserve, as if afraid of crossing an invisible line. He lifts the duvet and settles in gently, while Tadej is already lying there, relaxed as if this were completely normal. Except that it isn't. You're in bed with the best cyclist in the world, you have nothing to do here. Tadej could have someone much better.

Jonas' thoughts become jumbled and he shakes his head violently, trying to clear them.

The teasing then stops. Tadej's gaze changes, his mischievous glint fading to make way for unexpected tenderness. He turns to Jonas and, in a gesture of pure simplicity, moves closer. His hand first brushes the Dane's arm, as if to make sure he won't push him away, then slides against him, his chest pressing gently against his. Tadej rests his head in the crook of his shoulder, as if it were the most natural place in the world.

Jonas, surprised, holds his breath for a moment. He feels Tadej's warm breath against his skin, the heat of his body melting into his own. Although unsettled, Jonas has no desire to push him away, quite the contrary. He finds himself wanting it, loving this closeness. Without even thinking, he puts one arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and his other hand finds the Slovenian's hips. His fingers hesitate for a moment, then gently lift the hem of his T-shirt, just enough to brush against the warm skin hidden beneath. The contact is light, almost timid, but

Tadej shivers immediately, and Jonas feels it. Yet instead of pulling away, the Slovenian lets out a sigh of relief, a calm breath that is lost against his neck, before snuggling closer to him.
Jonas's heart races. He feels as if the entire room has shrunk to contain only this bed, this body nestled against his, this shared warmth. Tadej's muscular thigh covers his own, and Jonas feels the power of the muscle, the warmth of his skin. But the young Dane finds himself loving this weight, this presence that reassures him as much as it unsettles him.
Then he feels Tadej's lips, timid at first, brush the base of his neck. A soft, almost innocent kiss that sends a wave of heat rushing to his cheeks. Jonas closes his eyes, stiffens for a second, then lets himself go, wondering, red to the ears, if Tadej can hear his heart racing against his chest. Instinctively, his fingers intertwine a little more firmly around the Slovenian's hips, as if to tell him that he doesn't want him to move, that he can stay there as long as he wants.

Tadej then continues his delicious torture. His lips resume their way down his neck, more confident this time. He plants slow, lingering kisses, as if tasting every inch of skin. At times, Jonas feels his teeth graze his pale flesh, barely scratching, leaving behind a strangely disturbing tingling sensation. Jonas shivers with each pass, unable to contain the rapid breath escaping from his parted lips. He feels the warmth of Tadej's mouth, the contrast between the wet softness of his kisses and the slight bite that follows, and his body reacts despite himself.
His breathing quickens, his muscles relax as a new, burning tension invades his stomach. Jonas feels half-hard, and a wave of panic washes over him at the thought that Tadej might notice. He closes his eyes tighter, praying silently that the Slovenian won't pay attention to the bulge distorting his boxers. Damn, how can the simple touch of Tadej's body have such an effect on him?

But Tadej doesn't seem to notice Jonas's discomfort and continues relentlessly, his lips moving up his jaw, tracing a patient and precise path to his ear. There, his voice is nothing more than a breath, barely a whisper: “There's something I've been dreaming of doing... but not tonight.”

Jonas's heart races even faster. He turns his head, searching for his eyes in the darkness, breathless. “Why not tonight?” he asks in a trembling voice, torn between desire and incomprehension.

A smile crosses Tadej's face, gentle but confident. "Because I'm drunk. So are you. And that's not something I want to do in this state."
Jonas frowns, caught between disappointment and confusion. He doesn't have time to respond before Tadej laughs softly, as if touched by his reaction. He then leans over, plants a tender kiss on his forehead, very different from the previous ones, and whispers, “Good night, Jonas.”

Then he snuggles up against him again, his body pressing into his with quiet certainty. Jonas closes his eyes, his heart still pounding, unable to calm the echo of Tadej's words, which resonate within him much louder than the noise of the party they left behind.

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Chapter Text

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When Jonas wakes up the next morning, the sun is already high in the sky and soft light filters through the half-drawn curtains. The room is bathed in a golden glow that softens the contours of the furniture, as if time had slowed down to prolong the tranquility of the night. The air is warm, filled with that special silence that precedes the first sounds of the day, and Jonas feels enveloped in a bubble of calm after the previous day's turmoil. He breathes in slowly, savoring the tranquility he loves so much, which for a moment transports him back to his hometown. Glyngøre. The mere name tightens his chest, and he smiles sadly as he thinks back to this place he hasn't had the opportunity to return to in so long, to the windswept seascapes, to the family home where the coffee always smelled a little too strong in the morning and where laughter echoed off the walls. He missed his family terribly, like a hole inside him that kept growing.

He missed his family, but Jonas couldn't afford to go back. His salary didn't allow him to buy such expensive tickets, and his employer had never given him the freedom to take real vacation time. Last Christmas, he had planned to go, convinced that he would find a solution, but the weeks had passed, and he had had to give up. Ashamed, Jonas had not been able to tell the truth to his mother, who had offered to help pay for the ticket, but Jonas had refused. His parents had made many sacrifices for him, and he did not want them to spend such a large sum of money on him. So he lied. He told her that there were no more flights and that he would spend the holidays at a friend's house, just to reassure her and keep her from worrying. She would probably never know that he had actually spent Christmas alone in his apartment, the lights on the borrowed Christmas tree flickering dimly in the darkness, crying silently, unable to swallow anything but a bowl of instant soup.

He never dared to talk about any of this to Tadej either. The Slovenian had asked him several times, with his characteristic benevolent curiosity, when he planned to return to Denmark. Jonas had always dodged the question, his heart heavy, unable to admit the truth. He was afraid of his judgment, afraid to show how stuck he sometimes felt, ashamed of his situation.  So he had taken refuge in vague answers and forced smiles, and that had been enough for Tadej. 

Right next to him, Tadej is still fast asleep. The duvet is pulled up to his chin, leaving only his relaxed face and a few messy brown strands of hair on the pillow. In his sleep, he looks younger, almost fragile, a far cry from the dazzling confidence he displays during the day. The sun gently caresses his skin, casting light reflections on his cheekbones and highlighting the slight shadow of his eyelashes. Jonas remains motionless, unable to take his eyes off him.
He watches him for a few minutes, as if he wants to engrave this image in his memory. Each of Tadej's steady breaths, each imperceptible quiver of his parted lips, each frown... Without thinking, Jonas raises his hand and lets his fingers gently brush the Slovenian's cheek, following the line of his jaw in a discreet, almost reverent gesture.

But time eventually catches up with him. He reaches for the bedside table, grabs his phone, and a sigh breaks the silence when he sees the time displayed. Reluctantly, he slowly sits up, careful not to disturb Tadej's sleep. His steps are tentative as he gathers his belongings. He takes off the T-shirt that the Slovenian lent him the night before, holds it in his hands for a few seconds as if to breathe in its familiar scent one last time, then carefully puts it back. The moment brings him a pang of regret, but he ends up putting on his own clothes, his movements quick and mechanical.

Jonas tiptoes out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind him. The apartment is still silent, but as he walks forward, he sees the sun-drenched terrace. Adam is already up, sitting at a table with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. Jonas smiles when he sees him and approaches the older man, who greets him with a big smile.

“So, did you sleep well?” Adam asks, his voice still a little hoarse from the morning.

Jonas nods. “Yes, very well.”

Adam raises an eyebrow, his smile widening mischievously. “Of course... you always sleep well with Pogui.”
Jonas immediately blushes, looking down at the floor, embarrassed by the remark. 

“You're talking nonsense,” he mutters, trying to keep his composure. Then, to change the subject, he asks, “Are the others up yet?”

Adam chuckles, shaking his head. “No way! Jasper and Joao won't be out of bed before three o'clock, and even then, only if we shake them hard enough.”

Jonas laughs heartily, relaxed by Adam's humor. A bond between them slowly forms, naturally, as if the age difference is fading away in favor of a simple and comforting understanding. After a moment, Jonas gets up and heads to the kitchen. He makes himself a coffee and comes back to sit next to Adam, the cup warming his still-cold fingers. They chat about this and that, the previous evening, the weather, the next shopping trip, their words mingling with the distant song of birds and the clattering of dishes in the apartment. Jonas enjoys this conversation, this shared calm.

When he finishes his coffee, he gets up again and puts his cup in the kitchen sink. “I'll go say goodbye to Tadej later,” he announces, a little more quietly, as if the words cost him to leave the moment.
Then, in an almost mechanical gesture, he prepares another cup, pouring an espresso to which he adds a dash of oat milk. The aroma immediately fills the room, sweeter and rounder, and Jonas smiles despite himself. Tadej likes his coffee this way. 

Jonas then returns to the hallway, his footsteps barely echoing against the light parquet floor. He refrains from laughing when he hears the snoring coming from the bedroom where Jasper has collapsed; the sound almost penetrating the door, and Jonas shakes his head, amused. He continues on his way and quietly enters Tadej's bedroom. The room is still in semi-darkness, the morning light filtering through the curtains and casting pale lines across the crumpled sheets.

Tadej is still fast asleep, the duvet pulled up to his chin, his face relaxed with an almost childlike calm. Jonas approaches the bed, places the steaming cup on the nightstand, then leans over, his elbows pressed into the mattress. He lets his lips rest for a moment on Tadej's warm forehead. The Slovenian groans softly in his sleep, a barely audible moan, before slowly opening his eyes. His eyelids flutter for a few seconds, as if trying to shake off the weight of sleep.

Jonas smiles gently at him, patiently, and his hand instinctively brushes his messy hair, pushing it back from his forehead. Tadej sighs contentedly, moves closer to him, then frowns when he notices his clothes. His voice, still thick with sleep, mumbles:

“Are you already dressed?”

Jonas nods, his quiet smile softening his features. "Yes... I have homework to hand in, and I'm working tonight. I came to say goodbye. I made you coffee."

A groan escapes Tadej's lips, a silent protest, like a child torn too soon from his dreams. He raises a hand still heavy with sleep and interlaces their fingers, refusing to let him escape. Jonas laughs softly, shaking his head.

“No, Tadej, I can't... I have to catch the bus that's coming in exactly four minutes! The next one isn't until 1:00 p.m., I can't miss it.”

Tadej opens one eye, then the other, but doesn't let go of his hand. He reaches his free arm toward the nightstand, fumbling until he finds his phone. Jonas frowned, intrigued, and watched him tap quickly on the screen. A moment later, Tadej put the phone down and, his voice still hoarse, whispered:

“It's okay... you have an Uber coming to pick you up in twenty minutes. Just enough time for a hug.”

Jonas blushes and nervously bites his lower lip. He doesn't like it when Tadej pays for anything for him. A dull discomfort always takes hold of his throat, constantly reminding him of the gap between their lives. Deep down, he's afraid that the Slovenian might think he's using him for his money, that he's staying with him for the wrong reasons.

So he grumbles, a little awkwardly, to hide his discomfort.

“Tadej, I didn't budget a Uber this month.”

The Slovenian smiles quietly, clearly not taking offense. “That's okay, I used my account.” "
Jonas sighs and looks down, caught between annoyance and shame. Jonas hopes to earn a much better living once he finishes his studies, but he will never have the same standard of living as Tadej.

The Slovenian notices his discomfort and immediately sits up straight to catch his eye. He knows his silences too well, knows that tension in his shoulders too well. His voice lowers, almost a reassuring whisper.

“Jonas, it's nothing, okay? Just a taxi. And I'm happy to do it.”

But Jonas shakes his head, unable to let go of the knot in his stomach. “But I... I don't want you to... I feel like I'm using you, and that's not who I am. I won't do it.” "

Tadej is silent for a moment, then his smile softens, tender and reassuring. He tightens his fingers around Jonas's, as if to emphasize his words.

“Jonas, I know that. I know you. And if you were using me for my money, believe me, I would have know it a long time ago.”

He pauses, his gaze fixed on the Dane's. "It's just an Uber. And I'm just glad it saves you a long bus ride and gets you home faster. "

Jonas finally let out a sigh, as if giving up the fight. His lips stretched into a shy, almost embarrassed, but sincere smile. Tadej, on the other hand, immediately broke into a broad, radiant smile, like a child proud of having won a trivial battle.

“Now stop grumbling,” he says, gently pulling Jonas toward him, “and come give me a hug. I can enjoy you for another nineteen minutes.”

Jonas lets himself be drawn in without resistance and snuggles up against him. The embrace is soft and enveloping, like a cocoon woven in the warmth of the duvet. Tadej's chest is firm, and Jonas relaxes completely against it. Tadej's firmness becomes a natural support against which Jonas finally relaxes, his forehead brushing against the Slovenian's collarbone. Tadej's arms close around him, one nestled in the small of his back, the other resting higher up, absentmindedly caressing his back in a slow, reassuring gesture. Jonas takes a deep breath, soaking in the familiar scent of his skin mixed with that of his T-shirt, and he closes his eyes, savoring this moment of peace.

Tadej lowers his head, planting a few light kisses on his hair, like fleeting, almost instinctive touches, then whispers in a quiet voice:

“Thanks for the coffee.”

He grabs the cup from the nightstand, takes a sip, then immediately comes back to snuggle up against Jonas, refusing to break their closeness. Jonas, his voice low, simply whispers:

“It's nothing.”

But Tadej gently shakes his head, his lips still brushing against the Dane's hair.

“Yes, it matters...”

They say nothing more. Silence settles between them, calm and soothing, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of their mingling breaths and the warmth of their bodies coming together in this small space. Time seems to stand still, reduced to this single moment that neither of them wants to break.

Finally, Tadej's phone vibrates on the nightstand, bringing them back to reality. The driver has arrived. Jonas feels the slight tension in Tadej's body even before he moves, as if they already knew they had to part. Tadej kisses his hair one last time, lingering this time, then whispers against his skull:

“Will I see you this week?”

Jonas nods, too tight in the throat to respond otherwise. Tadej tightens his embrace one last time, then lifts his head slightly, searching for his eyes.

“Send me a message when you get there, okay? And take care of yourself, Jonas.”

“I promise,” Jonas whispers with a fragile smile, before adding, “And you, be careful on your bike.”

Tadej smiles, his eyes shining with a tender, knowing gleam.

“Always.”

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Chapter Text

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Two days later, Jonas pushes open the heavy glass doors of the university. Fatigue still clings to his features. He finished his shift on time, but he spent part of the night writing articles of all kinds. As always, Jonas heads to the back of the classroom, away from everyone else, where no one will bother him. It's his way of protecting himself: making himself invisible, even though Jonas knows it never really works.

But Mikkel is there. He's always there, like a shadow Jonas can't shake off. No sooner has Jonas crossed the threshold than he feels Mikkel's gaze on him. And the remark comes, sharp as a blade.

“So, Vingegaard, how's your champion doing? Hasn't he gotten tired of you yet?”

Jonas clenches his jaw and chooses not to respond, even though he's starting to get fed up with the comments about Tadej. He knows that any reaction will only fuel Mikkel's mocking laughter. He focuses on his bag, on the chair he pulls out silently, on his notebook, which he opens carefully, as if he could take refuge in it.

The class begins. It's one of his favorites, “Writing Techniques and Analysis in Sports Journalism.” Nothing absorbs him as much as this moment when they talk about the press, storytelling, sports, and articles designed to captivate readers. It's what he's been dreaming of for years, and every sentence uttered by the professor makes him feel a little closer to the life he hopes to build. So he writes everything down, his fingers racing across the paper, his eyes fixed on the teacher, as if nothing else existed.

When the class ends, Jonas carefully packs up his things, but before he can leave the room, the professor's voice rings out:

“Vingegaard, could you stay a moment, please?”

A shiver runs down his spine. Behind him, he immediately hears Mikkel sniggering, unable to resist the opportunity. He leans close to Jonas's ear, who shudders as he feels his breath too close to his pale skin.

“After the cycling champion, the old teachers, you'll stop at nothing, Jonas.”

Jonas ignores the jab, doesn't even glance at him, and walks toward the podium with measured, almost awkward steps. His heart is beating too fast and he already feels anxious, convinced he has made a mistake. The man, with graying hair and a face marked by the years, stares calmly at him from behind his round glasses. Jonas, his voice trembling slightly, dares to ask:

“Have I done something wrong, sir?”

“Wrong... oh, I'm almost tempted to say yes,” replies the man, a mysterious gleam in his eyes.

Jonas's throat tightens immediately. His fingers clench around the strap of his bag and his heart pounds in his chest. For an interminable second, he imagines that he has failed an assignment, been disrespectful without realizing it, or revealed something about himself that he shouldn't have. His cheeks flush red and he looks away, unable to meet his teacher's gaze. 

“Um... I...” he stammers, lost between shame and fear.

“I read the articles you sent me,” the old man continues calmly, his voice steady but vibrating with a rare sincerity.

Jonas swallows hard. He should never have shared his personal writings with his teacher. Why was he so stupid? Why couldn't he have been content with simply doing the assigned homework? What he doesn't see is the discreet smile that is already beginning to form on the man's face.

“Oh... I... it wasn't... it wasn't very good,” he mumbles, almost embarrassed that he dared to share these texts that he considers imperfect, unworthy.

This time, the teacher gives him a genuine, frank, reassuring smile. He shakes his head gently, as if to brush aside this overly harsh self-criticism.

“Not good? Oh, no, Jonas... it was excellent!”

Jonas's eyes widen in disbelief. The heat rises to his cheeks, even more intensely, and he stammers, unable to hide his surprise:

“Really?”

“Really,” the man confirms firmly, his gaze softening a little. "And I'm not just saying that to make you feel good. You know, in over thirty years of teaching, I've seen hundreds of students come and go, promising writers, brilliant minds. But your writing... the way you approach a subject, capture the details that make all the difference... it's something else. There's a maturity, a sensitivity... Jonas, I've rarely seen anything like it."

Jonas remains silent, frozen, his fingers nervously clutching the strap of his bag. A lump forms in his throat, a mixture of emotion and disbelief. Him, talented? Him, worthy of admiration? He has never dared to see himself that way.

The professor continues, more gently, but with a seriousness that leaves no room for doubt:

“I wanted to talk to you about getting your permission. I'd like to send some of your articles to a friend of mine. He works in a major sports media outlet, in a high-level position. Obviously, I can't promise anything, Jonas, but... it would be a waste to let such talent go to waste.”

The words resonate in Jonas's mind with a force he hadn't anticipated. He blinks several times, as if to convince himself that he's not dreaming, then finally nods his head with a tremor.

“Yes... yes, of course...” he manages to articulate, almost in a whisper.

A satisfied smile spreads across the professor's lips, and his eyes shine with rare kindness.

“Very well. Then I'll take care of it and keep you posted. I'll send them at the end of the week. If you have any other articles you want to send me, come and see me here!” 

“I... yes, okay, I'll do that. I... Thank you,” stammers Jonas.

“Oh, but you don't have to thank me, it's only your talent that did all the work, Jonas!”

Jonas leaves the classroom with his heart pounding, his cheeks still red, his teacher's words echoing endlessly in his head. For once, it's not Mikkel's taunts that echo in his mind, but a new certainty, slowly growing within him. Maybe he's not as insignificant as he thinks. Maybe he has something to offer. Maybe Mikkel is wrong.

The day passes quickly, almost too quickly. Jonas finds himself smiling as he copies his notes, walking more lightly through the hallways, as if the world around him has changed color. And strangely, the first person he thinks of, the one he wants to tell everything to, is Tadej. The idea of seeing his face light up when he hears the news is enough to fill him with feverish joy. He can't wait to share this with him, can't wait to prove to him that he's not just dead weight hanging on to his life.

Even Mikkel's barbs, thrown on the fly in the hallways, slide off him without reaching him. He grits his teeth as he always does and doesn't give him the pleasure of a reaction. 

In the evening, Jonas walks through the doors of the bar and puts on his apron. The room is almost empty, the tables spaced apart and bathed in a slightly harsh light, and the silence broken only by a few hushed conversations. Everything suggests that he is going to have a quiet evening, one of those evenings where he doesn't have to run around. That's what Jonas thought until the door opened. Two figures cross the threshold, and Jonas freezes. Mikkel. Of course. His classmate didn't choose this place at random. Jonas knows it the moment their eyes meet: he's come for him. Not for a drink, but to ruin his evening.

The two sat down at a table by the window. Jonas sighed quietly, knowing he had no choice but to approach them. He picked up his notebook, forced his legs to move forward, and kept his tone as neutral as possible.

“Good evening, what can I get you?”

Mikkel leans back in his chair, a smirk on his face, already relishing the discomfort he is causing.

“Oh, how polite, Jonas. Is that how you greet an old friend?”

Jonas remains silent, choosing not to play Mikkel's game, and looks at his notebook, ready to take notes.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Mikkel snickers.

“I don't know, what do you have to offer us, Jonas? What are your specialties, besides serving drinks? Huh, do you work after school too?”

Jonas presses his lips together.

“I'm doing my job, Mikkel, and you're wasting my time. What do you want?”

“Your job,” he repeats, snickering. “You seem to believe in your role as the model waiter. But everyone knows you're just a whore for Pogacar, right?”

Jonas clutches his notebook tighter, his gaze shifting, and Mikkel notices his discomfort. He leans toward him, his wicked smile accentuated by the harsh light of the bar.

“Look at yourself. You always blush when we talk about him. You know what everyone says, Jonas? That you're just his distraction. His personal whore. He throws you an expensive jacket, and you spread your legs. That's your job, isn't it?”

Jonas swallows hard, but forces his voice to remain calm.

“My job is to serve customers, what do you want?”

Mikkel bursts out laughing coldly, turning to his friend who is snickering with him.

“See? Even when you tell him the truth to his face, he looks down. A real well-trained little whore.”

Finally, he straightens up and says casually:"Well, we're not going to die of thirst. Two beers."

Jonas quickly takes note and walks away, gritting his teeth to keep from responding. Each step feels like it weighs a ton, so intense is the anger and shame colliding inside him. He hates this man. He hates him with all his might.

A few minutes later, he returns with the two glasses on a tray. But as soon as he sets them down on the table, Mikkel snickers again, his voice deliberately louder, loud enough for the owner behind the counter to hear.

“ Eh, what’s this? This isn’t what we ordered!”

Jonas stares at him, taken aback.

“You asked for two beers.”

“Oh no, my dear boy, we said two glasses of white wine,” Mikkel interrupts dramatically, rolling his eyes ostentatiously. “Are you hard of hearing, or did your cyclist make you shout too much last night?”

His friend bursts out laughing, and Jonas feels his cheeks flush red. Behind him, he can already feel his boss's hard, annoyed gaze. His voice drops, dry:

“ Concentrate a little, Jonas!”

He wants to protest, to tell the truth, but his employer gives him an authoritative wave of his hand that silences him. The humiliation burns, but he has no choice. He returns to the counter, exchanges the glasses, and comes back to the table.

Mikkel greets him with a predatory smile, satisfied at having won a round. 

“That's good... you listen obediently. You do the same thing with your cyclist, right? He tells you to ‘lie down,’ and you obey, opening your thighs without hesitation?”

Jonas freezes, his heart beating so hard that he feels like the whole bar can hear it. His fingers shake slightly around the tray, but he tries not to let it show. Yet Mikkel has surely sensed the flaw and pounces on it, his tone venomous. Jonas has let Mikkel attack him for years without ever showing anything, but he struggles to hide his anger when Mikkel mentions Tadej's name.

"Honestly, Jonas, I almost feel sorry for you. Being a whore isn't great, but then getting attached to the person who pays you to fuck you, really, Jonas... do you really think you have a chance?

Do you think you're the only one hanging around him?"

Jonas clenches his jaw and looks down at his feet to concentrate, but Mikkel gives him no respite.

"You almost make me feel l sorry for you, and you want me to be honest? Your great champion, he's nothing special. Have you seen his shoulders? He looks like a kid who stole his dad's bike.

A body like that is nothing impressive. I don't understand how he still manages to win races."
Jonas whispers an almost inaudible “shut up,” but the other guy snickers and continues, relentless. He's found the flaw in Jonas' armor.

"And then... everyone knows. His victories aren't thanks to his legs. They're thanks to syringes. Want to bet how much he's loaded from morning to night? Like all the others. But he also pretends to be the nice guy, the media darling. It makes me laugh. You've sunk even lower than I thought! If you're going to be a whore, you could at least do it with someone respectable."

Jonas looks up, his eyes burning. “Stop it.”

But Mikkel is jubilant, and every protest only encourages him.

"What, does it bother you that I'm talking about your little champion? A champion with great achievements, do you want me to talk about his crash in Belgium? You know the one I'm talking about... yeah, the one in Liège-Bastogne-Liège, on the wet descent, when he lost control in a corner. He must have shown you the footage, right? Almost the entire peloton on the ground because your hero doesn't know how to take a corner in the rain? A guy who barely apologized for causing them all to fall. Is that what you admire, Jonas?"

Jonas' blood runs cold, his fists clench instinctively, his nails dig into his palms as his rage flares, and he struggles not to let his body respond to the provocation. Mikkel has no idea what he's talking about, he knows nothing. Jonas had gotten to know Tadej over the past few months, they had talked a lot and Jonas had become interested in the Slovenian's career, curious to know everything about him. He still remembered the moment when, almost naively, he had asked him, “But aren't you ever afraid of falling?” Jonas remembers perfectly the expression on Tadej's face when he mentioned that fall, his trembling voice and the way he nervously played with his hands. He still felt guilty about it years later and had kept an indelible mark of that day, a thin scar on his elbow, which Jonas gently touched.

“You don't know anything about him, shut the fuck up,” Jonas replied.

“Oh, I know enough to be sure that if it's not because of doping, it's because the whole peloton is afraid of ending up in his wheels. You want me to be honest with you? Your Pogacar is just a lucky kid who will end up crushed by his own lies.”

“That's enough,” Jonas whispered, his hands clenched around the glass he was holding.

But Mikkel continued, amused by the anger on Jonas's face.

"And then, between us, do you really think you're the only one in his bed? A guy like him, with everything he has... he can fuck whoever he wants. Do you think you're the only one he pays to fuck, your Pogacar? Open your eyes, Jonas. The guy must be getting fucked left and right, and you're stupid enough to believe you're special. "

Jonas closes his eyes for a second, tries to breathe, but the next sentence destroys what little restraint he has left.

"In my opinion, even his coach must get on top of him from time to time. That's how he wins, right? A little dope, a little sex, and boom, Pogacar lifts trophies. Can you imagine the scene? Your hero on his knees, sucking dicks to keep his place on the team."

The image makes Jonas feel sick. He has no right. He has no right to denigrate Tadej like that. Jonas then loses control.  Jonas feels a burning wave wash over him, his fingers loosen and the glass flies out of his hand, shattering on Mikkel's face. The translucent liquid drips down his cheeks, and Jonas screams, his voice broken with anger:

"Stop it, right now! You know nothing about him, do you hear me, absolutely nothing! You have no right to sully his name, no right to mock what he's been through. You have no idea what it costs him, what he endures every day. So shut the fuck up!"

The entire bar freezes, conversations stop, and Jonas stands there, trembling, breathless, his eyes blazing with rage.

Mikkel seems taken aback for a moment. Wine is still dripping down his shirt, and a trail of wine runs down his cheek, but already his features are hardening. He straightens up abruptly, his eyes filled with anger, ready to pounce on Jonas. His fist rises, clenched, but his friend jumps in time, grabs him by the arm and pushes him back, preventing him from striking.
At that moment, the boss arrives with long strides. Roughly, he grabs Jonas by the shoulder and pulls him violently backwards, almost pinning him against the counter. His dark gaze slaps him like a slap in the face, and his voice booms:

“Who do you think you are, Vingegaard? You think you can throw glasses at my customers?”

Jonas opens his mouth, trying to justify himself, but the boss doesn't give him time. Already, he turns to Mikkel, his features softening into a falsely conciliatory grimace.

“I'm sorry, sir. Really sorry. This kid is going to be in serious trouble, I promise you. Your drinks will be on the house, of course.”

Mikkel, still soaked, manages a smile. His eyes lock with Jonas', who clenches his fists so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

“Can we do anything for you? Here are some towels to dry yourself off. I'm sorry, I...”

“No, it's okay, we've seen enough,” Mikkel replied curtly.

Mikkel pushed away the towels offered by the older man and approached Jonas, close enough that only Jonas could hear him, his voice becoming honeyed and venomous.

“I knew I'd find your weakness, Vingegaard. You just handed it to me on a silver platter.”

Jonas feels his chest heaving too fast, his temples pounding like a drum. But Mikkel isn't done. He leans in again, his lips almost touching Jonas's ear, and adds in a sharp whisper:

“I didn't think you cared so much about him. He should be careful. Monaco is small, you never know who you might bump into!”

A cold shiver runs through Jonas as he understands Mikkel's allusion. No... These problems with Mikkel are none of Tadej's business. It's not up to the Slovenian to pay for his mistakes. Jonas would never forgive himself.

"Don't hurt him!

“It would be entirely your fault if that happened, after all.”

Mikkel gave him one last sardonic smile and finally walked away, escorted by his friend. Jonas remained frozen, panting, fear and rage tangled in his chest, while his boss shook his head again, furious.

“What the hell was wrong with you?” the man yells, his jaw clenched. “Have you lost your mind?! You don't throw a glass in a customer's face, do you hear me?!”

“I... I can explain...” Jonas tries, but his voice breaks.

“Explain what?” interrupts the boss, arms spread wide, beside himself. “That you decided to kick my customers out? That you have absolutely no professionalism?!”

“It's not that, I swear... he... I... it's been years, he... he's been trying all this time, I...”

“No, I don't want to hear anything,” the man says, unrelenting. “You think this is a boxing ring?! You think we settle our scores with the barware?!”

Jonas looks down, trembling. His fingers clench the still-wet tray he holds against him like a pathetic shield.

“No, but I...”

The older man clearly has no desire to hear any more.

“You can hang up your apron, Jonas. And don't bother coming back tomorrow. You want to settle your problems? Settle them outside. But not in my bar.”

Oh no, not that... Jonas feels his stomach knot up. He can't. He can't afford to lose this job.

“No, please wait... I need this job..." he whispers.

The boss shakes his head, unyielding.

“I beg you... what he said... it was about someone who means a lot to me, I couldn't... I...”

“No, I've heard enough,” the man thunders, cutting him off. "I don't care about your romantic problems. Here, you work. You don't work anymore? Then you're out. And you owe me fifteen euros for the two glasses of wine you just threw in the trash."

Jonas stands frozen for a second, unable to move, unable to breathe. His eyes burn, but he refuses to cry in front of him. His trembling hands slowly place the apron on the counter.

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Chapter Text

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Jonas, still in shock, leaves the bar, his body shaking uncontrollably. Tears well up in his eyes before he even has time to hold them back. Outside, rain has joined this disastrous evening, falling violently, pounding the sidewalk and soaking his clothes in seconds. The raindrops quickly mix with his tears, blurring his vision, but he doesn't even bother to pull up his hood. Each step seems to require an amount of energy he no longer has. When he arrives in front of his building, he is soaked, frozen to the bone, but he is almost unaware of it. 

The only thing Jonas notices in front of the building's lobby is a familiar figure, under the flickering halo of a streetlight, sitting on his bike, a hood pulled over his head: Tadej.
The Slovenian quickly taps on his phone and looks up as Jonas approaches, a big smile immediately spreading across his lips, one of those wide, bright smiles that always has the power to warm Jonas's heart. But tonight, Tadej seems to quickly sense something off about him. Jonas tries to compose a neutral expression, forcing a semblance of a smile, looking away slightly to hide his reddened eyes.

“Tadej... what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse, as if he's just come out of a nightmare.

With his usual enthusiasm, Tadej replies that he knows Jonas doesn't have class the next morning, so they can enjoy the evening together. He adds, proudly, that he stopped by an Italian caterer before coming and picked up some dinner. Jonas forces himself to smile more, mutters a quiet “thank you,” and opens the building door to let him in. 
The elevator is too small to fit both the bike and the two men. Tadej struggles for a moment before managing to squeeze the bike in and jokingly remarks, “Given the position, we'd better not get stuck!” The Slovenian laughs at his own joke, and Jonas tries to smile, even though he knows it's a lost cause. Tadej begins to suspect something, as Jonas is always the first to laugh at his jokes or respond to his comments. Tadej observes him for a moment, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, but the doors opening again save Jonas.

Jonas steps out of the elevator first, his eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding Tadej's gaze, which he feels burning into the back of his neck. He opens the door to his apartment with a quick movement, his voice too hurried as he mutters that Tadej can leave his bike in the hallway. He immediately disappears into the kitchen, as if he needs to take refuge there, to put some distance between them before Tadej can read too clearly what he is trying to hide. He sets the bags down on the counter with a sharp movement, his clenched fingers still trembling. His chest rises too quickly, each breath seems difficult, painful, as if he were already short of air. A lump has formed in his throat, unbearable, almost preventing him from swallowing. His eyes burn, his temples throb, and the more he tries to maintain control, the more he feels he is losing his footing.

Then, in the doorway, Tadej's silhouette appears. The Slovenian stares at him for a long time, saying nothing at first, his features softened by a concern he makes no attempt to hide. 

“Jonas... what's wrong?” Tadej asks, his voice soft and calm.

These words are enough to break down the last barriers. Jonas feels his body stiffen, his shoulders begin to shake despite himself. His tears, which he has been holding back for hours, days, even weeks, finally resurface. They roll silently down his cheeks before turning into dry, loud, uncontrollable sobs. His breathing becomes labored, blocked, then resumes in disorderly gasps that make him feel as if he is suffocating. Everything mixed together inside him: fear, humiliation, anger, exhaustion... And shame, always, clinging to him. He made a clumsy gesture, bringing a trembling hand to his face to hide the disaster, but his fingers slipped across his wet cheeks. It was useless.

Tadej reacts quickly and in a second he is against him. His arms close around him with a gentle, solid force, as if to contain all the pain that is escaping. He pulls Jonas against his solid chest and rocks him, his chin resting in his rain-soaked hair. “Oh Jonas... it's okay, I'm here,” he whispers, his lips brushing his temple in a reassuring kiss. One of his hands slowly caresses his back, long, slow, steady movements, while the other slips into the nape of his neck, massaging the taut skin with his fingertips, trying to calm his tremors.

Jonas collapses further, clinging to him with desperate force, his fingers clenched into the fabric of his sweatshirt as if Tadej were the only thing that could keep him from sinking. His sobs burst forth, powerful, loud, uncontrolled, echoing in the empty kitchen. Each breath is a painful hiccup and each tear burns and tears at his throat.

Tadej doesn't let go. He holds him even tighter, his lips planting a shower of small kisses on his hair, on his temple, on his wet cheek. “It's going to be okay... I promise you it's going to be okay.” His voice is low, steady, a soothing melody amid the chaos that is shaking Jonas. His hands continue their movements, rubbing his back in regular circles, moving down to his lower back before gently moving back up to his shoulders.

“Hey, I'm here, it's okay, you're not alone, Jonas,” he whispers in his ear. "I'm here. With you. I won't let you go." His words are simple, repeated, whispered over and over again. Jonas moans weakly, his cries turning into disordered waves that crash against Tadej's chest. His shoulders shake, his legs seem to buckle, but Tadej supports him strongly, his own calm and steady breathing seeking to guide Jonas's.

The minutes pass, seemingly endless, as Jonas cries like he has never cried in front of anyone before. His sobs become more muffled, his tears less violent but just as painful. He feels as if he is emptying months of silent pain in a single evening. And every time his body is shaken by a new wave of sobs, Tadej is there, tightening his embrace, planting another kiss, whispering another reassuring word.

“It's okay, Jonas... it's okay now.”

“I won't let you go.”

“I'm here, I've got you, you're not alone.”

Little by little, Jonas lets himself be rocked, his breathing regaining a semblance of regularity against the quiet rhythm of Tadej's heart. But his shoulders remain tense, his chest still too shaken. Tadej gently takes his hand, slides it against his own chest, and whispers:

“Hey, it's okay, calm down, breathe Jonas... Look, follow my rhythm, breathe in slowly and breathe out... That's it, we're doing it together, follow my rhythm.”

Jonas closes his eyes and obeys as best he can, matching his jerky breaths to Tadej's slow, deep breathing. His breathing gradually stabilizes, but he doesn't loosen his grip. He curls up again against the Slovenian's neck, seeking his warmth like an anchor.
Tadej smiles sadly, presses his lips to Jonas's rain-damp hair, and asks in a low voice:

“Feeling better?”

Jonas shrugs weakly, unable to respond otherwise. Tadej kisses his wet locks, brushes his temple, and gently lifts their bodies apart. His fingers slide over Jonas's cold skin, moving up to his face, which he cups in his warm palms. He caresses his cheeks, wipes away the last tears with his thumbs, and kisses his trembling temple.

"Calm down... I'm here, you're safe. Look at me, Jonas... everything's fine."

Jonas tries to speak, but only a muffled sound comes from his trembling lips. His eyes still shine with distress. Tadej notices and gently shakes his head, refusing to force anything. His lips brush his forehead, his temples, as if to cover him with gentleness.

“Listen... you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, okay? I won't force you.” His voice is tender, reassuring. "Jonas, you're frozen. So here's what we're going to do: you're going to take a nice hot shower, I'll put a towel on the radiator to warm up. Then you put on something comfortable, and in the meantime, I'll heat up dinner. If you want to talk afterwards, you can.

And if you don't want to... it's okay, I'll still be here. I'll stay with you."
Jonas nods, unable to find the words but relieved. Tadej isn't making fun of him. He's not running away. Tadej smiles at him, a gentle smile that erases all his worries, and kisses the tip of his nose as if to lighten his heart even more.

“Go on, take your shower, hm? I'll wait for you. And if something's wrong, call me, I'm right next door, okay?”

Jonas obeys. His body moves almost mechanically, but his mind is still floating in a heavy fog. When he closes the bathroom door behind him, he feels drained, unable to think. He turns on the water and immediately lets out a deep, almost painful sigh as the heat spreads over his cold skin. The water streams down his shoulders, slides down his back, gradually erasing the shivers that still shake him. His tears mix with the hot drops, discreet, dissolved, but still there.

He steps out of the shower after several long minutes and, looking up, sees a large towel carefully folded on the sink, still warm. Tadej has thought of everything. Jonas smiles despite himself, a fragile but sincere smile that widens even more when he enters his room and discovers one of Tadej's sweaters on his bed. Soft, slightly too big, it retains its unmistakable scent. Jonas slips it on, pulls the fabric close to him, and takes a deep breath of the reassuring scent that calms his heart. He adds a pair of sweatpants, then stands still for a moment, clutching the sweater to him.

When he returns to the living room, the room welcomes him with a very different atmosphere. Tadej has laid out the still-steaming dishes on the small coffee table, and the TV screen is already showing the familiar opening credits of a detective series, Jonas's favorite. Tadej turns to him and gives him a tender, broad, bright smile. He opens his arms without a word, a gesture of invitation impossible to refuse.

Jonas doesn't fight it; he doesn't want to. A shy smile appeared on his lips and he stepped forward, before letting himself fall onto the sofa and into Tadej's warm embrace. He immediately snuggled up against him, his head nestled in the crook of his neck, his fingers clutching the fabric of Tadej's T-shirt as if he were afraid he would disappear. Tadej closes his arms around him, tight and protective, and plants a long, soothing kiss on his temple. His hand slowly slides down his back, making small circles that relax Jonas's still tense muscles. Then he tilts his head to kiss his hair, once, then again, with the same patience.

Jonas sits up slightly, his gaze locked with Tadej's. The shy smile on his lips widens despite himself when he hears the Slovenian announce that he took Italian because he knew it was Jonas's favorite. His heart tightens with a gentle, almost reassuring warmth.

“Thank you, Tadej,” he whispered sincerely, his eyes shining with emotion he was trying to contain.

He then looked down at the coffee table and raised an amused eyebrow when he saw the impressive array of dishes.

“Tell me... did you invite a rugby team to dinner with us?” he asks, his voice tinged with fragile humor.

A hearty laugh shakes Tadej, who immediately tightens his embrace around him.

"Everything on the menu looked so good! And I was hungry," he replies with his usual cheerful nonchalance.

Jonas laughs softly, a little surprised to feel so lighthearted after the evening he's just had. Jonas knows that only Tadej is capable of making him feel this way. If he hadn't been there, Jonas would probably have ended the night alone, his eyes burning with tears. But with Tadej, everything is different. 

“It's true, I forgot that you eat like five people,” Jonas continues, slowly regaining his composure. “I wonder where you put it all.”

His fingers slide down to Tadej's stomach, brush his hips, then run along his arms, which are still thin despite his training.

“How can such a slim body consume so much food without it showing?”

Tadej flashes a cheeky, almost childish smile.

“Maybe because I burn four times more calories than the average person,” he boasts.

Despite his smile, his voice suddenly loses its confidence, and Jonas immediately notices this slight wavering. Tadej lowers his eyes, muttering in a hesitant whisper:

“But Jonas... do you think I'm too skinny?”

Jonas freezes, surprised. Tadej is the confident type, comfortable in his own skin, and he didn't expect such a question from him. His heart sinks. He doesn't want to see this doubt in him. He shakes his head vigorously, his fingers caressing his stomach again, moving up to his ribs, which he brushes delicately.

“Tadej, of course not... You're perfect just the way you are.”

“Really?” whispers Tadej.

“Of course, you're gorgeous and I... yeah, I think your body is super sexy.”

The Slovenian's cheeks flush red, his gaze wandering for a moment before returning to Jonas, as if he's trying to believe his words. Jonas leans in and kisses him tenderly on the cheek, whispering softly:

“Thanks for dinner.”

Tadej smiles tenderly and runs his fingers through Jonas's damp hair. His hand moves down to the nape of his neck, massaging it gently, before pulling him close again. Then he kisses his temple, then his hair, and whispers softly:

“I think I'd buy all the buffets in the world if it meant seeing your smile.”

Jonas giggled, his laughter muffled against Tadej's neck. He nestled his face a little closer to his warm skin and replied teasingly:

“That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard.”

Tadej bursts out laughing in turn, his shoulders shaking, and tightens his embrace a little.

“I'm just unique!” he replies, his tone falsely pretentious, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

The light laughter of the two young men fills the apartment, gradually dispelling the heaviness of the evening. Then a loud gurgle breaks the moment, coming from Tadej's stomach. Jonas immediately looks up, amused, and shakes his head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

“I think it's time to eat... I don't want you to faint,” he says with a tenderness that lightens his words.

They sit down around the small coffee table, still close together, and begin to share the dishes. Jonas isn't very hungry, his stomach still knotted with the emotions of the evening, but the warmth of the moment and Tadej's insistent encouragement prompt him to try everything. The different pastas give off an enticing aroma, the pizza, still warm, crunches under their fingers, the lasagna is still steaming, and the sweet smell of the tiramisu sitting in the corner promises a comforting dessert. Jonas finds himself eating more than he thought he would, reassured by the idea that Tadej will finish it anyway and that nothing will go to waste.

They both eat, talking quietly, laughing occasionally, the crime series continuing to play in the background, its indistinct dialogue mingling with the discreet clinking of cutlery against plates. Jonas quickly puts down his cutlery, already full, his eyes involuntarily drifting to Tadej, who is still eating with quiet, focused appetite. He observes his every move, the way he cuts his portion, the instinctive way he pushes his plate a little closer to Jonas to invite him to have more, despite his refusals.

When Tadej finished his portion of tiramisu, he leaned back casually on the sofa, his back against the cushions, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Jonas didn't wait a second: he immediately moved closer, snuggling up against him, seeking the warmth he still lacked despite the hot shower. He rests his head against the Slovenian's shoulder and, looking up, notices a thin trace of cocoa left at the corner of his mouth. A smile spreads across his lips.

He sits up slightly and, with a tender gesture, runs his thumb over the corner of Tadej's mouth to wipe away the chocolate stain. “You're worse than a child,” he murmurs, laughing softly.
Tadej closes his eyes for a moment at the touch, leaning almost willingly into his hand. Then he opens his eyelids slightly, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Don't you want to remove it with your lips too, just to make sure there's none left?”

Jonas rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation, but his smile betrays him. His heart is already beating too fast as he leans in, planting a quick kiss on the corner of the Slovenian's lips. A simple touch, barely a second, but it feels like a spark under his skin. His breath catches, his heart races, and he has to force himself to regain his composure as he leans back to his original position, his head resting against him again.

Tadej looks satisfied, his insolent smile still on his lips, but his gestures contradict the mischief in his eyes. His fingers slide gently under Jonas's T-shirt, caressing the still-warm skin of his waist, drawing soothing circles that make Jonas sigh with pleasure. The Dane closes his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the warmth and comforting touch.

“Are you feeling better?” Tadej asks in a low voice, his breath brushing against his hair.

“Yes, you... I feel good with you, thank you, Tadej,” Jonas whispers.

Tadej remains silent for a few seconds, his fingers continuing their slow movements on his skin, before resuming, this time with a little more reserve. “Do you want to talk about it?” There is nothing urgent in his voice, just a discreet gentleness that offers without imposing.

Jonas tensed slightly, his lips parting as if he were about to answer, but only a muffled breath escaped his throat. 

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Jonas looks away, shame tightening around his chest. His gaze fixes on an invisible point on the wall, unable to meet Tadej’s eyes. He knows he should speak, that he can’t keep it all buried anymore, but fear grips him.

He’s lied to Tadej. From the very beginning, he hasn’t been honest. He’s hidden what’s been happening to him at university, convinced he could take it, that he was strong enough to handle everything alone. But tonight, his strength has failed him. He feels the dam starting to crack, feels the desperate need to confide, to finally put words to what’s been eating away at him since he arrived in France. And yet, one thought keeps him from crossing that line: what if Tadej takes it badly? What if his lie, weeks of silence, breaks the trust between them? What if Tadej leaves him?

The thought makes Jonas’s stomach twist, a dull ache settling deep in his chest. No, he can’t lose Tadej. He won’t make it without him. His body trembles despite himself, and Tadej senses it immediately. His arms close around him with even more tenderness, his warm breath brushing against Jonas’s ear.

"Jonas, it’s okay. Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to."

But Jonas shakes his head, his fingers clutching the fabric of Tadej’s sweater. His voice trembles, broken, barely a whisper.

"But I… Tadej, I… please, don’t leave me. Don’t give up on me… I’ll understand if you’re angry, but… please don’t leave me alone, I’m begging you."

Tadej freezes, startled by the words he hadn’t expected. His brows furrow, his heart tightens, and he squeezes Jonas’s hand more firmly.

"Jonas… why would I do that? It wouldn’t even cross my mind! I’m not leaving you! Why would you think that I…"

A tear rolls down Jonas’s pale cheek, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away. He lowers his head, ashamed, and mumbles in a broken voice,

"Because I lied to you. I… I’ve been hiding it since the day we met. I should’ve told you, but… I thought I could handle it. And now I… I can’t anymore. I don’t know how to deal with it."

His breathing quickens again, his shoulders trembling slightly, and Tadej, far from pulling away, wraps his arms around him with even greater tenderness. His hands move slowly along Jonas’s back, his lips brushing softly against his hair.

"I’m sorry, Tadej, I didn’t mean to, I… I thought it would be fine, I didn’t want to bother you with it, I…"

"Jonas, hey, calm down, I don’t understand anything!" Tadej says, his tone gentle but firm. "Slow down, okay? I don’t get it what are you talking about?"

Jonas gasps for breath, his chest rising and falling too fast, his dry throat struggling to let words through. Tadej’s fingers keep gently massaging the back of his neck, sometimes brushing his cheek with infinite care. His voice, steady and soft, cuts through the chaos in Jonas’s head.

"I don’t understand, Jonas… explain it to me, okay? I promise I won’t let you down."

Jonas blinks, his lashes still wet with tears, and stammers hesitantly, "R-really?"

Tadej immediately leans forward and presses a firm kiss into his hair. His voice softens even more as he murmurs against his ear, "I promise." Then he reaches for Jonas’s hand, takes it, and intertwines their fingers tightly, making sure Jonas understands he’s not alone.

Slowly, the words start to escape Jonas. At first, they stumble awkwardly from his lips, broken by silences and muffled sobs. But Tadej doesn’t move. He stays, present, patient, his gaze steady and comforting. Jonas breathes a little deeper and finally begins to release what he’s been holding inside for far too long.

"I… do you remember, when you came to the bar, and I asked you to… to keep a low profile?" Jonas stammers, his words clashing in his throat.

Tadej lifts his head slightly, his brows knitting together, though his voice remains calm and gentle. "Yes. I remember perfectly."
Jonas’s heart tightens. He wishes he could disappear right there, but Tadej’s eyes steady, kind keep him grounded. "I asked you that because… there were three guys who walked into that bar and I…"

His throat locks up, his shaky breathing betrays him. He shuts his eyes for a second, unable to contain the burning knot pressing against his chest. Damn it… He’s never going to get through this without breaking down. His fingers tremble, clinging to Tadej’s hand like a lifeline.

Tadej leans closer, his warm breath brushing against Jonas’s damp skin. "Take your time," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. His fingers tighten gently around Jonas’s, keeping him from falling apart completely. "I’m here, I’m with you."

Jonas swallows hard, then finally exhales the words. "Among them… there was one. Mikkel." The name, spoken aloud, echoes through the room with a bitterness that makes him almost sick. His body shivers, his jaw tightens at the memory alone. "He… he…" His voice falters, his eyes blur again. "Since I got to Nice… he’s hated me."

Tadej tightens his grip on his hand, his free palm coming to rest gently against Jonas’s cheek. "Jonas…" he breathes, his tone both grave and tender. His eyes don’t leave Jonas’s, filled with such focused attention that Jonas feels the urge to cry all over again.

"I… he’s hated me since I got here and I… he started making my life hell," Jonas murmurs, shame clinging to every word. His eyes drop immediately, as if he no longer dares to meet Tadej’s gaze after such an admission. His stomach twists, his heart races, and he feels like Tadej could step back at any second, disappointed to discover the truth.

"What? But why?" exclaims Tadej, his voice trembling with outrage. His brows furrow, his eyes flash with an anger that isn’t directed at Jonas. He shakes his head slightly, disbelieving, refusing to accept that anyone could do something like that to him. "Did… did something happen between you two? Did you do something to him?"

Jonas freezes, his breath catching. Panic shoots through him, but he rushes to answer, his voice raw and breaking. "No, I… I didn’t do anything, I swear. When I first got here, on the first day… I tried to talk to him, to be friendly. And the first thing he did was make fun of my Danish accent. I…" His throat tightens, his lips tremble. "At the time I thought it was nothing, just clumsy humor. But no… it only got worse. Every day."

He takes a deep breath, his fingers gripping Tadej’s hand as though letting go would mean falling into a void. His mind screams that he shouldn’t have said all this, that Tadej will see him as weak, as a burden. But when he dares to look up again, he finds Tadej’s face, hardened by anger yet illuminated by that same tenderness, urging him to keep going.

"I… I don’t know why he does it," Jonas whispers, his voice breaking in places. His fingers twist nervously around Tadej’s, and his eyes dart across the room, searching for something, anything to look at other than Tadej’s worried expression. "At first… it was just teasing. I thought he’d stop, that it was just a phase, something stupid he’d get over. But I…"
"But he didn’t, did he?" Tadej says quietly, his voice low but vibrating with restrained anger. His thumb presses softly against Jonas’s palm, a silent way of telling him not to hold back.

Jonas nods weakly, his lips trembling uncontrollably. "Mm… no. He never stopped. It’s been going on since I got here, and I…" His throat tightens again, a sob threatening to cut him off, but he pushes through, forcing himself to continue. "It only got worse. It wasn’t just teasing anymore, it turned… cruel, humiliating, and I… sometimes violent. And over and over again, almost every day. I…" His breathing quickens, his hands clench even tighter. "I think he’s managed to ruin my reputation across the whole campus. Everyone believes his stories, and I… I stay silent. It’s been years, Tadej. Years. And I… I thought I’d get used to it, that it would eventually stop, that I just had to hold on until the end of this year. But…" His eyes glisten, brimming with tears.

"When the photos of us came out, it got even worse."

Tadej inhales slowly, as though holding back his own fury so as not to scare him further. His eyes burn with outrage, but his hands remain infinitely gentle, his thumbs brushing softly against Jonas’s tense knuckles. "Oh, Jonas… I… I’m so sorry," he whispers, his voice low and heavy with emotion.

Jonas shrugs faintly, his body curling in on itself, as if crushed by a new weight pressing down on him. A tear slides slowly down his cheek, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

"Since the photos came out," he continues, his voice even weaker now, each word tearing something out of him, "he… he’s been saying I sell myself for money. And I… he started spreading rumors that I sleep with professors to pass my classes…" His voice breaks, and a muffled sob escapes him. He covers his face with one hand, overwhelmed by shame.

Tadej, shaken, immediately pulls him close against his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around him as if to shield him from everything. His lips find Jonas’s hair again, leaving short, repeated kisses there.

"Jonas…" Tadej breathes softly.

"I… him going after me, I…" Jonas’s voice suddenly cracks, his eyes still fixed on an invisible point in front of him, as if searching for somewhere to hide his shame. His fingers tremble in Tadej’s. "I used to… it’s never easy, but… I thought I could handle it. But he… he came to the bar tonight and I…" His breathing grows faster, broken by small hiccups. He closes his eyes, unable to meet Tadej’s gaze.

"I’ve really grown attached to you, Tadej… you mean so much more to me than you can imagine and I… he started going after you, saying disgusting things about you and I…" Jonas swallows hard, a tear sliding down his cheek before he wipes it away with the back of his hand. "He has no right, he doesn’t even know you, he knows nothing about you, and I… I couldn’t stand hearing him talk about you like that. I…" He draws a deep breath, but his voice cracks further. "I couldn’t control myself… I couldn’t listen to him insult you anymore. So I threw my glass of wine in his face and… I got fired, Tadej. My boss fired me on the spot. I…" His hands are visibly shaking now, his shoulders tense. "I don’t know what to do… I need that job…"

He can’t finish his sentence. His throat tightens, his lips tremble, and his emotions spiral out of control. Uncontrollable sobs shake his body as he buries his face in Tadej’s neck, breathing in his scent in a desperate attempt to calm himself. But nothing works. Shame, fear, and stress mix together into a wave that overwhelms him completely.

"Jonas…" Tadej murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath. His arms close more tightly around him, pulling him close. One hand slides to the back of his neck, the other strokes his back in slow, circular motions, trying to warm him, to comfort him. His lips press gentle, regular kisses against his temple and hair. "Breathe… slowly… I’m here…"

"I’m sorry, Tadej…" Jonas sobs, his fingers clutching almost desperately at the fabric of the Slovenian’s t-shirt. "I didn’t want to lie to you or hide it, but… I’m so ashamed and I… I didn’t want you to see me the way they do. I… I’m sorry…"

Tadej closes his eyes, his heart tightening painfully at those words. He slides his fingers under Jonas’s chin, lifting it gently so their eyes meet. His thumbs wipe away the tears still rolling down Jonas’s cheeks. "Jonas, look at me," he says softly. His gaze is firm but incredibly tender. "I will never see you the way they do. Never. What they say doesn’t change anything about what I know of you. Do you hear me?"

Jonas sniffs weakly, unable to speak, but gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Tadej tightens his embrace, his warm breath brushing against Jonas’s ear. "It’s over, I’m here, you don’t have to face this alone anymore. I’m here, Jonas."

"He… Tadej, he threatened to hurt you…"

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"He… Tadej, he threatened to hurt you…" Jonas whispers, his voice trembling. His words stumble and crash against each other, desperate to escape all at once. "I… I’m sorry… I’m just so scared he’ll go after you, and if he ever… if he ever hurt you, I… I’d never forgive myself. I… I don’t want my problems to affect you, I don’t want you to pay for what’s happening to me…" His throat tightens, cutting off his voice, and his hands clutch even more tightly at Tadej’s t-shirt, as if holding on could somehow keep him from slipping away.

A shiver runs through Tadej at those words, a cold tremor climbing up his spine, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he draws Jonas closer, pressing him firmly against his chest as if he could shield him from the rest of the world. His lips brush against the damp skin of the Dane’s temple, leaving a slow kiss there. "Jonas…" he murmurs, his voice low and heavy with tenderness. He tilts his head, searching for the young man’s gaze, but Jonas keeps his eyes stubbornly shut.

"Jonas, I… I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that alone for so many years…" Tadej breathes, his voice soft and trembling, as if every word hurts to say. His eyes find Jonas’s, filled with a raw, aching sincerity. "I had no idea what was happening… no idea what you were enduring…"

"But I didn’t want…" Jonas stammers, his voice breaking. "I thought I could handle it on my own… I thought I was strong enough to take it, but I can’t anymore… I’m so tired of all this, Tadej…" His shoulders tense, his breathing becomes uneven, and his fingers twist tighter in the fabric of Tadej’s sweatshirt. "And I’m scared he’ll hurt you too, I… I’m scared my problems will reach you and I… damn it… I still have rent to pay and without that job I… I’m never going to make it…"

His voice cracks at the end, swallowed by sobs he can no longer suppress. He breathes too fast, his chest rising in short, ragged movements, and panic starts to take over again.

Tadej reacts instantly. He brings both hands to Jonas’s face, his palms wide and warm against his cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears still streaming down. His gaze stays steady, anchored in the Dane’s eyes. "Jonas, hey… look at me." His voice is low, firm yet gentle, the kind used to soothe. "It’s okay, all right? I’m here. You’re not alone." He leans his forehead against Jonas’s, their breaths mingling. "I know you’re scared, I know he’s made your life hell, but I’m here now. You don’t have to face this on your own anymore. And you don’t have to worry about me, all right? No one’s going to hurt me."

Jonas shakes his head weakly, his eyes wide with fear. "No… but you don’t know him, Tadej, he could… he…"

Tadej tightens his hands slightly around Jonas’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze, his expression suddenly more serious. "Has he ever hurt you, Jonas?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Physically, I mean?" His fingers slide gently along Jonas’s temples, down to the back of his neck to calm his trembling, as he waits, his eyes never leaving his.

Jonas shivers at the question and looks away. His throat tightens, and he can’t bring himself to meet Tadej’s eyes. He knows the answer is yes. Yes, it’s happened, more than once. But he’s never told anyone, not even himself, preferring to bury the memories under a heavy silence.

He remembers that day after class, when Mikkel had waited for him in the hallway. Jonas had barely had time to close his notebook before the other boy slammed his shoulder against the wall, his fingers gripping so hard they left a purple mark. He had whispered some insult in Jonas’s ear, and Jonas hadn’t been able to react, frozen by pain and fear.

He also remembers a winter morning, the campus still shrouded in icy fog. He had been hurrying through the corridors, bag slung over his shoulder, eager to reach the classroom, but Mikkel had been waiting near the stairs. Without a word, he had grabbed Jonas by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall. The impact had made his head thud against the stone, stars flashing before his eyes. Mikkel had leaned close, his breath reeking of alcohol, and hissed something venomous in his ear before letting him go, as if nothing had happened, leaving Jonas stumbling away, his hands cold with fear.

And then there was that one evening, more vivid than all the rest. Jonas had only just arrived in Nice, barely a few weeks in, still trying to find his footing, to learn how to breathe in that foreign city. That day, Mikkel had spent every hour targeting him, throwing remarks, stifled laughs, pointed jabs loud enough for everyone to hear. Jonas had clenched his jaw, bitten his tongue, but the exhaustion and humiliation had finally cracked his silence. In the middle of a crowded lecture hall, he had snapped, a sharp, cutting phrase bursting from his lips like a whip. His voice, firmer than he’d thought possible, had echoed through the room, and the laughter of his classmates had quickly followed, blending cruelly with his words.

Mikkel had gone pale, then his eyes had hardened into a cold, furious glare. Jonas had seen it, had felt it. It was a line he should never have crossed, and he knew at that very moment that he would pay for it. The dark looks Mikkel kept sending him for the rest of the class were enough to freeze his blood, each minute stretching into silent threat.

When the class finally ended, Jonas had gathered his things as quickly as he could, praying that Mikkel would let it go. His legs trembled as he walked down the steps of the lecture hall. But the moment he reached the door, a rough hand had clamped down on his arm. Mikkel’s fingers had dug into his skin, gripping so tightly that Jonas had felt a wave of nausea. He had tried to pull away, but the hold was unrelenting, and fear had locked his body still.

Mikkel had dragged him along without a word, without even a glance, and Jonas had no choice but to follow, his throat tight with panic. Every step echoed through the empty halls, his heart pounding too fast, his thoughts colliding chaotically in his head. He didn’t know where Mikkel was taking him, he only wanted to disappear. The bathroom door slammed shut behind them with a sharp sound that echoed like a sentence being passed. Before he could say a word, before he could even understand, Jonas was thrown against the cold wall of a stall. His back hit the surface with a dull thud that knocked the air from his lungs. Then Mikkel’s hands came down on his throat.

The pressure was immediate, brutal. Jonas felt his muscles tense, his breath suddenly cut off, sucked into a terrifying emptiness. His lungs started to burn almost instantly, pain radiating through his chest. His hands grabbed Mikkel’s wrists, pulling, scratching, but nothing helped. The grip didn’t move. He tried to breathe in short gasps, but every inhale was just a broken, desperate sound. His mouth opened reflexively, but no real air came in, only a dry rasp that tore at his throat.

Jonas doesn’t remember how long Mikkel held him like that, but his vision had begun to blur around the edges, black spots flickering in front of his eyes. His head spun, his legs shook, and a high-pitched ringing filled his ears. His body convulsed in waves, his nails clawing helplessly at Mikkel’s hands. He felt his head hit the tile, his legs weakening beneath him, his eyes clouding with pure, animal panic.

It was only when Jonas felt his strength draining, his vision nearly gone, when he was sure he was about to fade into darkness, that Mikkel’s grip finally loosened. Air burst into his lungs, tearing through his chest. He gasped loudly, his breath ragged, each inhale turning into a painful hiss. His hands instinctively went to his neck, where the pain still throbbed, his fingers brushing the skin marked by the violence.

"Talk to me like that again and you know what’s coming!" Mikkel had spat, his dark eyes locked on his, a promise of terror in his voice. The door slammed behind him with a violent echo, leaving Jonas alone in the cold, silent stall.

Jonas’s legs gave out. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the tiled floor. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, his breathing sharp and broken by silent sobs. The bitter taste of panic filled his mouth, and he couldn’t tell if the tears blurring his vision came from fear, pain, or shame. Jonas wrapped his arms tightly around himself, seeking comfort that didn’t exist, praying no one would walk in and see him like that. His lungs still burned, his neck carried the stinging memory of the attack, and one thought looped endlessly in his mind: he could have died there, alone, in that bathroom, and no one would have known.

Jonas trembles, his cold hands gripping Tadej’s sweater, and he nods weakly without lifting his eyes. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, blurred with tears, as Tadej’s gentle but tense voice reaches him. The Slovenian leans closer, his breath warm, his tone almost pleading.

"Jonas…" he whispers, his voice fragile, breaking with guilt. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I understand… I’m so sorry…"

Jonas shakes his head faintly, his throat still tight with emotion. His voice is barely a whisper, but he manages to say, "It’s not your fault…"

Tadej closes his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening, and he pulls Jonas closer against him, his arms firm around the trembling body, trying to protect him. His voice returns, steadier this time, filled with quiet determination. "We’ll find a way out of this, all right? You’re not alone anymore. I’m here now, and we’ll face it together. I promise I won’t leave you with this."

Jonas lifts his shoulders slightly, defeated. His gaze drifts into emptiness, and his voice breaks, bitter and desperate. "But what can you do? He’s turned almost the whole university against me and I… fuck, Tadej, I don’t even have a job anymore… and I…"

His breathing speeds up again, shallow and erratic, and Tadej feels him slipping back into panic. Immediately, he moves his hands to Jonas’s pale cheeks, gently stroking the damp skin, guiding his face back toward him. His eyes search desperately for Jonas’s, blue and filled with tears.

"Jonas, no… calm down. I’m here, all right? About the university, we’ll figure something out, we’ll find a way, but you don’t have to handle this on your own anymore. You can lean on me, okay? I’ll be there at the first sign of trouble. And I know that if we need to, the guys will be there too. If it’s too hard for you to talk to your friends or your family, you can call them, I know they’ll be there for you. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore, I promise you."

Jonas closes his eyes briefly, his lips trembling as if he’s hesitating to cross an invisible line. Then he murmurs, in a voice so low it’s barely more than a broken confession, "Jasper knows."

Tadej’s breath catches, his brows furrowing suddenly. Confusion flashes across his face, and Jonas immediately looks away, ashamed, terrified of what he might see in Tadej’s eyes if he dared to meet them. His voice grows even weaker, fragile and uneven, as though he fears that every word might trigger something that would make Tadej get up and walk away.

"I… Mikkel was at the same club as us last time," Jonas whispers, his voice barely audible, fractured by the memories resurfacing. "I ran into him when I went to the bathroom, and he… he was mocking me again… And then… Jasper walked in right then. He understood, he saw, but I… I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t want to burden you with that. So I made him promise not to say anything. I… I’m sorry…"

His shoulders slump as soon as the words leave his mouth, as if the confession has drained the last bit of strength from him. A burning ache rises in his throat, shame clinging to his skin. He hates himself for having kept this secret, and even more for having involved Jasper in it. He dreads the judgment, the disappointment, maybe even the anger.

But instead, a faint smile appears on Tadej’s lips. His eyes shine with unshakable gentleness, and he brings his hand to Jonas’s cheek, his fingers brushing softly against his skin. His thumb traces small comforting circles, wiping away the tears that threaten to fall.

"And he kept his promise," Tadej says quietly, his voice steady with calm conviction. "I’m sure he’d be the first one there if something happened. He knows how much you mean to me, Jonas. And trust me, he really likes you. He wouldn’t hesitate for a second to help if you needed him."

Jonas shivers slightly at those words. A strange warmth spreads through his chest, blurring the edges of his anxiety. "Uh… that’s kind, thank you."

"It’s normal. You’re not alone. And about the rest, Jonas, I… I’ll help you find another job. I know a lot of people in Nice, even in Monaco. I’ve got plenty of contacts, and I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but if in this case calling myself Tadej Pogačar can help, then I will. And… Jonas, I have money,more than enough, and I… damn it, that’s the worst sentence to say, I’m sorry, but what I mean is, I can help you, okay? I’m not going to let you drown. If you’re struggling, money isn’t a problem for me."

Jonas tenses instantly, shaking his head frantically. He can’t. He refuses to accept any financial help from Tadej. He never cared about his wealth, and he doesn’t want Tadej to feel used.

"What? No! Tadej, I can’t!" he exclaims, his voice breaking with nerves. "I’m not going to use your money! I told you already… I don’t care that you’re a multimillionaire. That’s not what I like about you, that’s not what matters to me!" His throat tightens, his eyes glistening with tears he can barely hold back. "I don’t want you to feel used, or to think that I’m staying because you can give me things I don’t have. To me, you’re so much more than a guy with money."

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and silence falls between them, heavy and almost suffocating. Jonas’s heart pounds against his ribs, filled with the fear that Tadej might misunderstand, might see something in him that isn’t there.

But Tadej, far from being offended, remains calm, serene in that quiet way Jonas loves so much. He exhales softly, a tender smile curving his lips. His eyes narrow slightly, bright with warmth, as if he’s just realized something that Jonas can’t yet see. He glances briefly toward the ceiling, thoughtful, before looking back at him, his smile growing wider, almost teasing now.

"And that, I know…" Tadej says softly, his tone gentler but serious beneath the calm. "But okay, imagine for a second that tomorrow I end up in the middle of a huge scandal. People hate me, my team fires me, my sponsors all drop me one after another. I’ve got nothing left, completely broke. You still have your stable job, your apartment, your routine. Would you let me down?"

"What? Of course not!" Jonas replies immediately, without even thinking. His voice trembles with emotion, but it’s firm, instinctive. "I’d help you if you needed anything at all! I’d never let you down, Tadej!" He says it with such conviction that it almost surprises him. The mere thought of Tadej suffering, alone and abandoned, is unbearable. His chest tightens at the image.

A mischievous smile curves Tadej’s lips then, light but glowing with quiet tenderness. Jonas feels his own lips part, his breath catching in his throat. He understands exactly what Tadej is getting at.

"You see," Tadej murmurs calmly, "you wouldn’t let me struggle alone. Which I think is normal. So let me do the same for you, Jonas." His voice softens even more, becoming almost a caress. "I can help you. I have more than enough to do it. And I know you’re not using me for my money." A spark of humor flickers in his eyes. "No one’s ever told me off the way you did, you know."

That mix of lightheartedness and deep sincerity pulls a faint smile from Jonas despite himself. His heart beats a little faster, his stomach twists with something he can’t quite name. The honesty in Tadej’s voice seeps through every word, every tone.

"I know you," Tadej continues. "I know who you are, and I trust you. So let me help you when I can. Please." His fingers come to rest gently at the back of Jonas’s neck, brushing his skin with a tender, almost reverent touch. "Not because you asked for anything, but because you matter to me, because you don’t have to carry all this alone anymore."

Jonas lowers his eyes again, unable to bear that bright, steady gaze that seems to pierce straight through him. His cheeks grow warm, flushed by both Tadej’s tenderness and the quiet shame of admitting that he can’t do it all on his own. His stomach tightens, caught between the fear of depending on him and the immense relief of no longer facing everything entirely alone. His throat stays tight, but he finally nods, just slightly, a shy, hesitant gesture that already feels like surrender. Maybe Tadej is right. Maybe, just this once, he can allow himself not to carry everything alone.

"Um… okay," Jonas breathes, his voice so low it barely reaches the air. "But only if I can’t find work, all right? It would just be… a last resort."

Tadej nods immediately, not trying to insist, as if he had been waiting for that small opening to fill it with all his gentleness. "Deal!" he says, smiling brightly, his face lighting up. "I don’t want you stressing about this, okay? I’m here. You don’t need to worry about money, I can help you. So stop putting pressure on yourself."

Jonas takes a deeper breath, his exhale still unsteady, and Tadej pulls him a little closer, his hand sliding into his hair with slow, almost hypnotic motions. "And I know it’s probably easier said than done," the Slovenian continues softly, "but try to relax tonight. Just tonight. I’m here, it’s just us on the couch, and there’s nothing and no one that can interrupt this moment. It’s just you and me, okay? Try to forget everything else for now."

Jonas closes his eyes briefly, letting the words settle in his mind like a warm blanket, and he feels his chest loosen just a little.

"Everything’s going to be okay now," Tadej adds, his breath brushing through Jonas’s hair. "I promise. We’ll find solutions together."

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Chapter Text

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Jonas exhales as he steps through the gates of his university, just like every morning. He pushes open the heavy doors.
The hallways, usually filled with motion and chatter, are strangely empty. No laughter, no hurried footsteps, no whispered conversations between doors. Only a heavy, oppressive silence that clings to his skin like cold sweat. Every sound of his shoes echoes endlessly against the walls, too loud, too sharp, as if the whole world had shrunk into this single, endless corridor.

He keeps walking, his pace quickening, driven by a dull instinct he can’t quite name. His breath shortens, his heartbeat drums frantically in his chest, pounding as though it’s trying to escape. His eyes narrow, disbelieving, because what he sees makes no sense. The walls aren’t the same anymore, the paint looks darker, almost wet. Whole stretches of hallway seem to have disappeared, swallowed by a shifting darkness. Doors he knew by heart are gone, erased like memories torn from his mind.

Jonas shakes his head, disoriented. No, it can’t be real. He must be hallucinating, losing his grip. And yet, he can feel it, the stifling pressure of this place closing in on him. His lungs burn, starved for air in an atmosphere that’s too thick, too heavy. The walls, he’s sure of it, are closing in, every step shrinking the space a little more, as if the corridor itself is trying to swallow him whole. His throat tightens, his palms sweat, his whole body trembles under the wave of panic.

He can’t take it anymore. His breathing is sharp, broken, his legs moving almost on their own. In a desperate act, Jonas shoves open the first door he sees, hoping for air, an exit, anything to free him from the suffocating claustrophobia. But the moment he crosses the threshold, his stomach drops and a chill races down his spine.

"Tadej!"

No. No, no, no. It’s impossible. It can’t be.

Pressed against the wall, Tadej is trapped, his body crushed beneath Mikkel’s towering frame. Mikkel’s thick, merciless hands dig under his clothes with a sickening brutality, sliding along his sides, gripping his skin as if to mark it forever. His fingers grab at the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling, wrinkling, ready to tear it away in one motion. Tadej fights back, but his movements crash uselessly against the wall of muscle holding him prisoner.

Then, without warning, Mikkel shifts his focus. His hands slide down slowly, cruelly, to Tadej’s legs, strong, lean, vital. He squeezes, his fingers digging in with such force that his knuckles turn white. Jonas sees blood running down the cyclist’s thighs, he doesn’t even understand how, but Tadej’s screams rip through the air, raw, jagged, torn from his throat like blades. His legs tense, his muscles convulse in a desperate struggle, but the blood keeps flowing, tracing dark red trails down his skin.

Jonas’s breath catches in his chest, panic and helplessness crashing over him all at once. Those legs those legs Tadej needs more than anything, his tools for victory, for life are being crushed in Mikkel’s grip. The agony shows in every twitch of his face, every shudder of his body.

Jonas feels his stomach twist violently. Tadej’s screams tear through his eardrums, unbearable, and he wants to close his eyes, to cover his ears, to run. But he can’t. Something stronger pins him there, forces him to look, to see. His breath quickens, his heart threatens to burst. Panic, rage, and despair clash inside him, suffocating him. His own thighs ache in echo, as if the pain has become his.

"Tadej!" Jonas screams, his voice breaking.

The Slovenian turns his head, his tear-streaked eyes locking desperately onto Jonas’s. "Help me… please, help me…"

Jonas wants to run, to tear Tadej away from Mikkel’s grasp, but his body won’t move. His feet are anchored to the ground, buried in invisible concrete. He strains, he pulls with everything he has, but nothing happens. His muscles clench, his lungs burn, his mind screams but he stays frozen.

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.

"Stop it! Mikkel, let him go! Stop it now!"

Jonas screams so loud that his throat burns, but Mikkel doesn’t react. He doesn’t even hear him. Worse, he slaps Tadej with such violence that the Slovenian’s head smacks against the wall. Jonas feels the scream rip through his chest.

"No!"

He wants to protect him, he has to protect him. But he can’t. His legs still won’t move, his ribs feel like they’re caving in. And in the deafening silence that follows, a voice whispers then another, then ten, all echoing in his skull.

It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.

The voices overlap, collide, multiply until they become a roaring wave that tears through the air and shreds his thoughts. They swell, louder, closer, until he feels them pulsing from inside his own head. A sharp pain explodes behind his temples, spreading in burning waves down his neck. Jonas groans, his face twisted, and he presses his hands over his ears in a desperate gesture.

"Shut up! Shut up!" he screams, his voice strangled by panic. But the voices don’t stop. They only grow stronger, relentless, closing in, suffocating him, crushing him. His balance falters, the floor tilts beneath his feet, and his legs finally give out, unable to hold him any longer. A violent dizziness overtakes him, and Jonas collapses.

It’s your fault. It’s your fault.

Jonas moans, trying to silence the voices in his head, and Tadej’s screams pull him back to reality. Jonas watches in horror as Mikkel’s bloody hands slowly move up to encircle Tadej’s throat. He sees the fingers sink into fragile skin, leaving reddish streaks, sees the Slovenian’s face contort, his lips searching for air that does not come. His legs beat weakly against the wall, his eyes roll back. Jonas begins to choke too, his breath trapped, imprisoned by this vision.

And the voices keep pounding, relentless, chaining him to his own helplessness.
It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.Jonas screams until his vocal cords feel torn, but no sound comes from his mouth. All that echoes is the sound of Tadej suffocating under Mikkel’s unrelenting grip.

"Help me… Jonas, please, help me…" Tadej gasps, his voice strangled, broken by lack of air.

Jonas fights inside himself, trying to force his legs to move, but they stay rooted to the floor, heavy and motionless, as if paralyzed. He wants to run, to wrench Tadej from Mikkel’s hold, but his body betrays him. His muscles refuse to obey, and each second tears him apart more.
In front of him, Mikkel’s fingers tighten around Tadej’s throat, digging into his pale skin stained with his own blood. The cyclist struggles feebly, his hands trying to push away the iron hold, only to slip uselessly against his attacker’s massive forearms. His legs, still bloodied, the legs that normally swallow kilometers and conquer mountains, beat weakly against the floor, robbed of their life force. Jonas feels as if his own lungs are contracting, suffocating from a distance, every choked sound torn from Tadej resonating in his chest like an explosion.

"Don’t leave me… don’t abandon me, I beg you, Jonas…" Tadej whispers, his clouded eyes fixing on him one last time in a desperate plea.

"Let him go! Mikkel, stop this!" Jonas screams, his hoarse voice breaking into a wrenching cry. His vocal cords burn, but none of his words seem to reach Mikkel, who continues the torture without even glancing away.

Tears blur Jonas’s vision, flooding his face. He sees Tadej’s torso rise more and more raggedly, his lips opening on stolen breaths, weak and barely audible. His face tightens, reddened by effort and pain, and his eyes roll for a moment beneath half closed lids.

"Jonas…" he manages to whisper, a breath so faint it already seems to fade.

The Dane’s heart twists, his stomach turns. He is there, so close, and yet powerless. God, Mikkel is going to kill him, right here under his eyes.

It’s your fault…It’s your fault…It’s your fault…

"Tadej… no!" Jonas shouts, his rasping voice shattering the suffocating corridor, his cry breaking into sobs as the scene continues, merciless.

"Jonas! Jonas! JONAS!"

Tadej’s voice pierces the oppressive fog of the nightmare and rips Jonas from his sleep. He snaps his eyes open, gasping, his chest rising at a frantic pace. His forehead is covered in sweat, his hair glued to damp skin, and his whole body still trembles with uncontrollable spasms. His eyes wander the living room, desperately searching for an anchor, something to bring him back to the real. But for a few seconds he sees nothing but Mikkel’s distorted face, his hands clamped around Tadej’s throat, the cries of pain ringing in his head.

"Jonas… hey… Are you okay? It’s nothing, it’s okay, you fell asleep, it was a nightmare, it’s all right," Tadej murmurs in a low but steady voice, his fingers gently stroking the Dane’s cheek to anchor him in the present moment.

Jonas’s heart pounds so hard he feels it might burst in his chest. His breathing is too fast, ragged, each wheezing breath as if the air refuses to fill his lungs. His fingers still tremble as they mechanically touch the hollow of Tadej’s throat, checking that it is intact, that there are no marks, no wounds. Then his hand slides up to the top of the cyclist’s thigh, gripping it almost desperately, haunted by the image of Mikkel crushing his legs in the nightmare.

Jonas takes long, painful breaths and finally buries himself more against Tadej, holding him with feverish strength, as if his body alone could protect them both. His lips tremble, his words stumble in a broken whisper. "I… I’m sorry… it was… just a nightmare."

Tadej lowers his head and plants a warm kiss on his damp forehead. His voice is gentle, composed, contrasting with Jonas’s nervousness. "Yes, I gathered. It’s okay, hm?"

Jonas nods faintly, but his eyes remain evasive, still clinging to the shadows of the nightmare. His voice almost dies in his throat when he murmurs, "Yes… it wasn’t real, but… he was hurting you… He was going after you and I… I couldn’t do anything… I couldn’t move and I… it was horrible…"
Tadej tightens his hold at once, his hand sliding into the nape of Jonas’s neck to pull him close, his thumb gently stroking his sweat damp skin. "Jonas… hey… it’s okay now, do you hear me? It was a nightmare, nothing more. I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about me, everything is fine."

The words, whispered in a warm breath that brushes his ear, gradually take root in Jonas’s still troubled mind. He closes his eyes, letting himself be rocked by the reassuring voice and by the warmth of Tadej’s body against his. His breathing remains wheezy but calms down, and when he half opens his eyes he notices the soft fabric draped over his shoulders. The blanket he had left rolled at the end of the couch is now carefully wrapped around him. Tadej, Jonas thinks. The Slovenian had taken care to place it there while he slept, watching over him. A wave of gratitude mixed with tenderness crosses his chest and a small, fragile but sincere smile tugs at his lips.

Attentive to every shiver, Tadej senses his calming. He presses his lips once more to his temple before whispering gently, "You should go to bed, you’ll be better in your own bed."
Jonas nods, still nestled against him, then raises his eyes. His voice is still a little shaky but shaded with shy modesty. "Are you staying here?"

A mischievous, insolent smile curves the Slovenian’s mouth as he lifts his head slightly and answers in a theatrical tone, "Come on, I’m kind, I’ll grant you the honor of my presence. I can even sign your pillow if you want! Not everyone gets the privilege of bringing the best cyclist into their bed."

Jonas bursts into a short laugh, surprised to find that light tone amid his inner chaos. The oppressive weight of the nightmare loosens a little more, replaced by that singular warmth that Tadej always manages to awaken in him. "I should kick you out just for that remark!" he retorts with a recovered smile.

Their laughter intertwines in the dim light, and hand in hand, still wrapped in each other’s arms, they rise from the couch. The wooden floor creaks softly under their steps as they head toward the bedroom, the silence of the apartment wrapping their closeness in a quiet cocoon. Tadej’s hand brushes gently against Jonas’s back in a natural, familiar gesture that sends a shiver through the Dane.

Once inside the bathroom, the atmosphere shifts lighter, almost playful. The fogged mirror reflects two tired but smiling silhouettes. Tadej, already holding the toothbrush Jonas gave him, raises an eyebrow mischievously and, instead of starting to brush, sneaks closer to tickle Jonas’s ribs. Jonas’s surprised laughter bursts out, clear and uncontrollable, as he folds in on himself, trying to push the cyclist away. "Tadej stop! You’re impossible!" he complains between laughs, his eyes bright despite himself.

Taking advantage of the moment, Tadej suddenly pulls him closer and plants a loud kiss on his cheek, leaving a deliberate streak of white foam behind. Jonas stares at him, speechless, before rolling his eyes. "You’re worse than a kid!" The Slovenian bursts out laughing, proud of himself, and without missing a beat dips his toothpaste-covered finger to draw a crooked line across

Jonas’s forehead. Jonas glances at his reflection in disbelief, steps back shaking his head, half-laughing, half-grumbling, "No, stop! You’re worse than a kid!" But his laughter betrays the tenderness that floods him. Tadej laughs harder and, far from stopping, pretends to smear more foam on his cheek. Jonas defends himself, brandishing his own toothbrush like a weapon, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Their reflection in the mirror shows two boys play-fighting, forgetting for a moment the weight of the previous hours. Tadej leans a bit too close, about to tease him again when Jonas, clumsy and laughing, splatters the mirror with foam. "Look at this mess!" he exclaims, pointing at the streaked glass. Tadej shrugs insolently, laughing. "It’s your contemporary art, Jonas don’t you recognize your own talent?"

Jonas shakes his head, his eyes sparkling. He doesn’t often let go like this, and the sound of his unrestrained laughter fills the small room, softening everything around them. Encouraged, Tadej keeps playing. He nudges Jonas with his shoulder, pretending to steal space in front of the sink. Jonas protests, tries to hold his ground, but Tadej insists, grinning wide, until they end up gently bumping into each other like two overgrown kids.

They somehow manage to finish brushing their teeth, water splashed across the mirror and tiles, before stepping out of the bathroom. Jonas sighs at the mess, shaking his head dramatically.

"Look at this disaster… You’re impossible, Tadej."

"What a grandma," Tadej retorts, bursting out laughing.

Jonas immediately raises a warning finger. "Keep talking and I’ll throw you out."

"Try me," Tadej answers, still laughing, before digging his fingers into Jonas’s side. The Dane freezes with a small startled yelp and twists to escape. Bad move. Tadej has found his weak spot, and his mischievous grin widens.

"No! Tadej, don’t you dare…" Jonas begins, but the Slovenian repeats the gesture, pinching lightly at his hips. Jonas bursts out laughing, unable to catch his breath, struggling desperately to fend off Tadej’s quick hands. He stumbles backward, trying to escape, but Tadej grabs him by the waist and pulls him in with unexpected strength. Jonas laughs harder, his cheeks flushed, his voice breaking between helpless fits of laughter as he pleads for mercy.

They stumble, carried by their own energy, and fall heavily onto the mattress. Jonas lands on his back, the air knocked out of him, while Tadej crashes down on top of him, their chests pressed together, their breaths mingling. Jonas is still laughing, tears at the corners of his eyes from being tickled too long, trying weakly to push the cyclist away. But Tadej isn’t done yet. He renews his attack, his nimble fingers digging into Jonas’s sides until the Dane collapses in breathless laughter.

"Stop! Tadej, I can’t take it anymore!" Jonas cries out, his face flushed, his voice breaking under the spasms of laughter.

Tadej laughs too, enjoying his advantage. Jonas squirms, trying to escape, but his movements are clumsy, powerless from laughing so hard. Tadej holds him effortlessly. His hands catch Jonas’s wrists, pinning them slowly above his head, holding them there with one hand as Jonas gasps, unable to stop smiling.

"Tadej, if you don’t stop, I… I swear I’ll throw you out! And without your bike!" Jonas manages to say between bursts of laughter.

"Oh, I’m terrified," Tadej replies in mock fear, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "But for that, you’d have to manage to move first."

Jonas struggles weakly, but he isn’t really fighting. His body, pliant under Tadej’s hold, stays still, his breath ragged from laughing. The Slovenian tilts his head, his face drawing dangerously close, then slowly raises his free hand, threatening. Jonas instantly realizes what he’s about to do and cries out, his voice strangled by a mix of dread and amusement.

"No! Tadej, no, I forbid you!"

A victorious smile curves Tadej’s lips as he leans in even closer, close enough for Jonas to feel his warm breath against his ear.
"Maybe if you beg," Tadej murmurs, his voice low and teasing, "I might consider letting you go…"

Jonas raises an eyebrow, pretending to be shocked, his eyes still glistening with tears of laughter. He knows Tadej too well to be surprised by that kind of line always ready to provoke. So instead of backing down, he decides to play along.

"Please, Tadej, let me go," Jonas says with mock despair, his tone deliberately dramatic.

A laugh escapes Tadej, his grip loosening slightly as he’s caught off guard by Jonas’s performance. Jonas feels the pressure on his wrists ease, the weight on his body becoming lighter. His smile turns sly. In a single fluid motion, his core tightens, his hips lift sharply, and he twists with surprising agility. Taken off guard, Tadej loses his balance and falls to the side.

Jonas doesn’t give him a chance to react. With a swift, feline motion, he slips free, swings his legs over Tadej’s hips, and sits down firmly on him. Jonas, now on top, looks down at him with a triumphant glint in his eyes.

Their rapid breaths mingle in the air still thick with laughter, and Jonas shivers when Tadej’s hips shift slightly beneath him, trying to break free. That accidental movement sends a jolt through him, every nerve suddenly awake, but Jonas tightens his hold, refusing to give up an inch.

Jonas’s fingers hold Tadej’s wrists pinned on either side of his face against the mattress. He tilts his head slightly, a mischievous smile curving his lips, and breathes, proud, "So, not so cocky now, huh."

A low, amused growl escapes the Slovenian, his eyes sparking with defiance. "I let you win on purpose, that’s all."

Jonas rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher. "Oh really? You know what? I think I could even say I had Tadej Pogačar trapped in my bed, completely at my mercy."

Tadej’s laugh bursts out immediately, warm and genuine, completely at odds with the position he’s in. "Brilliant idea! Then I’ll just file a lawsuit for kidnapping and sexual assault!"

Their laughter intertwines, breaking whatever tension still lingers, and Jonas finally releases Tadej’s wrists. But the Slovenian doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to flip the situation, doesn’t even raise a hand to push him away. Instead, he stays still, letting Jonas stay above him, his gaze locked on him with a new kind of intensity.

Jonas leans closer. Their chests brush, their breathing falls into the same rhythm, and their faces are now only a few centimeters apart. His eyes study every inch of Tadej’s face. The pale blue of his irises, so bright they almost look unreal, contracts softly in the dim light and reminds him of the rough sea he used to watch as a child—beautiful and dangerous all at once. He notices the reddish lashes fluttering, as if Tadej hesitates to keep looking at him, as if the moment is too intimate, too charged to be held for long. Then Jonas’s gaze slides down to his pale cheeks dusted with faint freckles, those sunlit marks that soften his sharp features and make him, for a fleeting second, look fragile, almost boyish.

Time seems to stop. Jonas doesn’t see anything else but him. Tadej is beautiful.

His fingers move, tentative, tracing the curve of his cheek. He feels the warmth of his skin, the faint roughness of a day’s stubble, and that simple contact feels like crossing an invisible threshold. His thumb glides slowly toward his temple, and a smile tugs at his lips when he spots the thin tan line left by his helmet, a pale stripe cutting through the golden tone of his skin. Without thinking, Jonas leans down and presses a soft kiss right there.

Tadej’s eyes close instantly. His lips part with a faint breath, and Jonas feels his body react beneath him. One of Tadej’s hands leaves the sheets and finds Jonas’s thigh. His fingers slide over the fabric of his pants before pressing gently, grounding him, as if to keep him close, not let him go. Jonas shivers, his muscles tightening, but he doesn’t move away. He lets himself sink into the warmth of that touch that asks him to stay.

His face lowers again, his lips brushing the edge of Tadej’s jaw, trailing small, fleeting kisses along the line before reaching his ear. There he pauses, his breath brushing the sensitive skin, and lifts his head slightly. Their eyes meet again, but this time Jonas’s gaze falls naturally to his lips—red, full, still glistening where he’s bitten them nervously. They make his stomach clench, his thoughts blur.

"Do you remember what you said after that night at the club?" Jonas whispers.

Tadej frowns slightly, and Jonas lets his thumb stroke his forehead, tracing and smoothing away the lines that appear there, as if to soothe even the smallest trace of worry. He leans closer, his breath brushing the Slovenian’s warm skin.

"You said you were dying to do something," Jonas murmurs, his voice low but steady, "but you didn’t because we were both drunk."

Tadej’s gaze ignites instantly. His pupils widen, a quiet gasp escapes his parted lips. He understands exactly what Jonas means.

"Yes," he breathes, his voice husky, "I remember perfectly."

Jonas presses a slow kiss along the tense line of Tadej’s jaw, his lips gliding upward with deliberate care. His hand explores his face, his thumb brushing the Slovenian’s lower lip. Jonas feels the heat there, the faint moisture, and it sends a shiver through his spine.

"And tonight," he murmurs, his breath grazing Tadej’s lips, "neither of us has been drinking. I think you should go ahead and try."

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Chapter Text

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"And tonight," Jonas murmurs, his breath brushing against Tadej’s lips, "neither of us has been drinking… I think you should try."

Jonas’s heart hammers in his chest as Tadej’s eyes gleam with desire. The Slovenian bites his lower lip nervously, as if weighing his next move, hesitating. His gaze is locked on Jonas’s, his quick, uneven breathing betraying the fragile boundary still between them. His fingers tighten slightly on Jonas’s thigh, then he closes his eyes and finally bridges the distance. Tadej leans up just enough for his lips to meet Jonas’s in a kiss so soft it feels almost uncertain, more a touch than a kiss.

Tadej’s lips are warm, smooth, faintly sweet, and the contact sends an electric current through Jonas’s entire body. His breath catches in his throat, his eyelids flutter closed, and for an instant, he stops thinking altogether. He answers first with restraint, his lips brushing Tadej’s timidly, as if he’s afraid of asking for too much. But the warmth of that first contact, the tenderness behind it, and the desire he saw in the Slovenian’s eyes quickly wash away his hesitation.

Tadej tilts his head slightly, his nose grazing Jonas’s, seeking instinctively to deepen the kiss. Their breaths mingle, hot and uneven, and Jonas lets instinct take over. His hand slides behind Tadej’s neck, fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer, while the other drifts along his cheek, savoring the heat of his skin.

Tadej responds in kind, pressing his lips more firmly against Jonas’s, gaining confidence. Jonas feels the tip of his tongue trace along his lower lip, a silent question. He parts his lips in answer, granting him access, and a violent shiver runs down his spine as their tongues meet, hesitant at first, then bolder, entwining in a slow, hungry rhythm. Tadej kisses him with desperate urgency, while Jonas, at first unsure, quickly loses himself in the growing heat.

A low moan escapes Tadej, rough and muffled against Jonas’s mouth, a sound that makes his whole body tremble. The Slovenian’s hand trails up Jonas’s back, finding the nape of his neck, while his other hand clutches at his thigh, holding him close, keeping him there. Closer still, he wants more. He wants every part of him.

Their mouths move together with an almost instinctive synchrony, opening and closing in a raw, uneven rhythm. The kiss turns messier, deeper, hungrier. Tadej’s teeth catch Jonas’s lower lip, tugging lightly before his mouth finds his again with renewed urgency.

Their breaths mingle, hot and ragged. Their bodies press together, chests colliding with every trembling inhale. Tadej’s hands slide down Jonas’s back, clutching at his clothes as if letting go would break the spell of this moment. Their lips part only for an instant, long enough to gasp for air before finding each other again, drawn by some magnetic pull. Their noses brush, their faces so close that each small movement from one dictates the other’s. Tadej’s skin burns beneath Jonas’s fingers, and each touch, each graze, ignites something deeper inside him.

When they finally break apart, it’s out of necessity, breathless and dizzy. Their lips are red, slightly swollen, glistening faintly. Tadej keeps his eyes closed, his breathing short, almost panting, while Jonas stays still, watching the face he has come to love so completely.

Jonas lowers his forehead to Tadej’s. Their noses bump in a clumsy movement that draws a quiet laugh from him. Their breaths mingle again, and with shy boldness, Tadej nips lightly at Jonas’s lower lip, tugging gently before releasing it, his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin.

Then, with slow and deliberate control, Tadej shifts his weight, his hands gliding along Jonas’s sides as he rolls them over. The movement is fluid but firm, guiding Jonas’s back down against the mattress until it sinks beneath him. The Slovenian braces himself above him, arms framing his face, breath ghosting over his skin, reclaiming control with effortless grace. Jonas doesn’t resist. He lets himself be moved, his arm curling instinctively around Tadej’s neck, his fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there. At the same time, his leg bends and presses against Tadej’s, a subtle but firm gesture that draws him even closer. Their bodies fit together as if molded for this, every motion shrinking the distance between them.

Tadej, still breathing hard, tilts his head and presses a first kiss to Jonas’s jaw. His warm lips glide slowly over the smooth, tense skin, leaving small, burning trails. He alternates between gentle pressure and lingering pauses, adding the faintest scrape of teeth now and then, just enough to make Jonas shiver and tilt his head instinctively, offering more. Tadej’s breath, hot and unsteady, brushes over his skin, leaving behind a tingling warmth. When he reaches the base of Jonas’s jaw, he lingers, his tongue tracing a slow, wet line against the pale skin there. Jonas grits his teeth, a tremor running through his spine. His body has never reacted this way to anyone’s touch, and he tightens his hands in Tadej’s hair, pulling him even closer.

Tadej continues his slow, deliberate torture, moving lower until his lips find Jonas’s neck. He presses a firmer kiss there, his tongue tracing the fine skin before catching it gently between his lips. Each motion is precise, measured, yet charged with raw, unfiltered desire. His teeth graze the tender flesh at the base of Jonas’s throat, leaving a faint red mark, but Jonas couldn’t care less. His body takes over; his breath quickens, his shoulders tremble under Tadej’s touch. A wave of uncontrollable heat floods him, clashing with the cold restraint that has always defined him. His throat tightens when he feels Tadej’s tongue slide slowly, languidly, up the side of his neck, lingering over that sensitive spot that makes his pulse race. When Tadej finally moves back up, his lips finding Jonas’s jaw again, he presses one last kiss against the pale skin, and Jonas feels the faint curve of a smile against his neck.

"Jonas…" Tadej murmurs, barely audible.

Jonas senses he’s about to say something more and cuts him off abruptly, his voice low, hoarse, tinged with a soft authority and an urgency he can’t control. "No, don’t talk… just kiss me."

The words slip out of him before he even realizes it. Never has he sounded so pleading, so desperate, so wanting. The intensity in his gaze is enough for Tadej to obey without hesitation. The cyclist presses closer and finds his lips again, claiming them with a hunger that steals Jonas’s breath. The kiss deepens instantly. Tadej catches Jonas’s lower lip between his own, nibbling lightly before sucking on it with slow, deliberate care that draws a ragged gasp from him. Their tongues meet again, sliding together in an irregular, feverish rhythm.

Jonas loses all sense of time. His lips keep finding Tadej’s, again and again, as if drawn by gravity itself. The kisses grow more intense, sometimes fast, urgent, sometimes slower but no less consuming. Their hands, unsure at first, become bolder. Jonas’s palms trace Tadej’s hips while the Slovenian’s fingers tangle in his blond hair, tugging lightly. Jonas’s lips are swollen, raw, but he doesn’t care. He follows the rhythm of Tadej’s mouth, surrendering to it completely. When Tadej pulls back slightly, their foreheads meet, breaths colliding in the narrow space between them. A nervous, breathless laugh escapes him, while Jonas, eyes half-closed, struggles to catch his breath.

"You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this," Tadej murmurs, his warm breath brushing Jonas’s still-sensitive lips, every word vibrating against his skin.

Jonas looks away, unable to handle the weight of that gaze, a genuine flush rising to his cheeks. His lips part as if to reply, but Tadej cuts him off with another quick, tender kiss. Jonas shivers, his heart pounding so hard he’s sure Tadej can feel it.

"Let me guess," Jonas says at last, regaining a hint of composure, his tone laced with a teasing smile. "You’re going to tell me it was love at first sight that night at the bar, and you’ve been obsessed with me ever since?"

Tadej arches an eyebrow, mischief darkening his eyes. "Wrong. The first night I came in, I was so drunk I could’ve made out with a goat and not noticed the difference."

Jonas freezes for half a second, eyes wide, before bursting into disbelieving laughter. His hand smacks the back of Tadej’s head with a sharp clap. God, what did he do to deserve someone like this.

"You just kissed me, and the first thing you compare it to is a goat? You’re the least romantic person I’ve ever met!" he exclaims, feigning outrage, though the smile tugging at his lips gives him away.

"Hey, that’s not what I said!" Tadej protests, sitting up slightly, eyes shining with amusement. "Besides, your breath is definitely better than a goat’s!"

Jonas rolls his eyes, though another laugh shakes his chest. He lifts his hands as if to push him away, but his fingers only tighten on Tadej’s shoulders, refusing to let him go. And Tadej, far from offended, takes advantage of the closeness, leaning back down to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Jonas’s mouth.

"And even if you were a goat, you’d be the sexiest one I’ve ever seen," he adds, eyes glinting with mischief, clearly waiting for Jonas’s outraged reaction.

Jonas rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure they might get stuck, but despite himself, a smile ghosts across his lips. "Oh my god… you somehow manage to dig yourself in deeper every time you open your mouth!" he groans, half exasperated, half amused. "I think I like you better when you’re not talking."

"Oh, that I can fix easily," Tadej replies, his playful tone dipping into something that sounds dangerously like a promise.

Before Jonas can answer, Tadej closes the gap between them again, kissing him with a renewed intensity that silences every thought. Jonas freezes for a heartbeat, then melts instantly, his breath quickening as his hands find their way again. He will never get used to Tadej’s kisses, his heart threatens to burst every single time. His fingers travel down Tadej’s sides, feeling the tension and heat of his muscles, then slowly move back up to cradle his face. His palms fit perfectly along his jaw, his thumbs brushing absent circles across his warm skin.

The kiss deepens, their lips parting to let their tongues meet once more, the passion between them burning brighter. Jonas feels a dizzy rush, the world blurring until there’s nothing left but the heat of Tadej’s mouth on his. God, no one has ever kissed him like this. He could spend the rest of his life like this, he thinks, nothing else matters, nothing ever will. His fingers grip Tadej’s face a little tighter, his body refusing to pull away, though his lungs are already begging for air.

Out of breath, Jonas finally breaks the kiss, his lips swollen and still tingling from the contact. He leans his head back slightly, gasping as if he’s been starved of oxygen for hours. But Tadej gives him no time to recover. He leans in again, and when Jonas turns his head away, the Slovenian’s damp lips find his cheek instead, pressing a lingering kiss there that draws a sound from Jonas’s throat, a low, half-annoyed, half-affectionate groan.

"Hey, I’m not a professional athlete, we don’t have the same stamina! I need to breathe!" Jonas gasps, his voice broken by uneven breaths, his chest rising and falling erratically.

Tadej, barely out of breath, lets out a soft laugh, his eyes glimmering with tender amusement. He leans forward and presses a light butterfly kiss on the tip of Jonas’s nose, a gesture so playful it contrasts with the intensity of the kiss they just shared. Jonas can’t help but smile in return.

His hand finds Tadej’s cheek, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw, exploring the contours of his face as if to memorize them. He traces the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the outline of his lips still damp from their kiss. His palm lingers against the warmth of his skin, and he feels Tadej lean into the touch, offering himself fully to it. Jonas closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling of safety. He feels good with Tadej, as if he’s finally found a place where he can just exist without fear, a place where he feels loved.

Tadej smiles down at him with disarming tenderness, his lips scattering a series of feather-light kisses across Jonas’s face. His forehead, his temples, his cheeks, even the tip of his nose, nothing is spared from the gentle onslaught. Jonas closes his eyes again, giving in to the sensation, a shiver running through him each time Tadej’s warm mouth brushes his skin.

Then Tadej pauses, holding himself up on one arm, silent. Their breaths mingle in the still air of the room, their gazes locked, intense, neither willing to break the fragile thread stretched between them. Jonas’s pale blue eyes draw Tadej in like gravity itself, and he catches himself tracing every shade, every flicker of light within them. Jonas has the most beautiful eyes Tadej has ever seen.

With a slow, almost reverent motion, Tadej runs his fingers along his face again, down the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the softness of his lips. He leans closer, his mouth finding the hollow of Jonas’s ear, and in a low, warm murmur, he whispers, "You’re beautiful, Jonas."

Jonas flushes instantly, his heart leaping violently at the sound of those words he’s never known how to accept. He turns his head slightly, uneasy, torn between wanting to believe and instinctively rejecting the compliment he doesn’t think he deserves. For years, all he’s heard are the jabs and cruel jokes about his thin body, his height, his unruly hair, his sharp jaw, his prominent cheekbones. Mikkel’s words have left wounds that will never quite heal; they’ll always be a part of him.

But for a man like Tadej, with his strong, carved features, his solid jawline, his body shaped by discipline and strength, the very image of effortless beauty to look at him like this, to call him beautiful… it’s strange, but it feels good.

"You… really think so?" Jonas stammers, uncertain.

Tadej lowers his head and presses a firmer kiss against Jonas’s throat, his lips lingering before sucking lightly on the pale skin. Then he raises his face slightly, his lips brushing warm air against his neck, and murmurs, "Of course. I think you’re perfect."

The warmth in Tadej’s voice, the gentle certainty of it, makes Jonas’s heart pound even faster. His cheeks burn, and he turns his head away, as if he could hide from that gaze. But Tadej misses nothing. A playful smile tugs at his lips as he leans in to kiss Jonas’s cheek.

"And you’re even more beautiful when you blush. I love the effect I have on you," he whispers against his skin.

Jonas lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, then covers his face with both hands, trying to hide the redness spreading to his ears. But Tadej catches his wrists gently, pulling them away, his thumbs brushing softly over the center of Jonas’s palms.

"Stop teasing me," Jonas murmurs, his voice barely above a breath.

"Oh, but I love seeing you blush," Tadej chuckles, pinching his cheek lightly in a playful gesture that draws another reluctant laugh from him.

Jonas tries to swat his hand away, but the motion is weak, affectionate. His heart feels like it’s melting under the weight of these small, tender gestures. He feels so at peace, so utterly calm, as if all his worries have dissolved into the air, as long as he’s here, in this small cocoon with Tadej. His mind softens, his shoulders loosen.

"And I’ll remind you," Tadej continues, eyes glinting mischievously, "I’m Tadej Pogačar, one of the greatest athletes in the world. I have standards, you know, I don’t just kiss anyone!"

Jonas’s eyes widen in mock outrage as he pushes him gently with his fingertips. "Oh, come on, not again! You never stop, do you?"

"Never!" Tadej laughs, leaning even closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "And besides, I know you love it. And now you’re stuck with me… hopefully for a long time. I’m not letting you go."

Jonas feels the heat rise in his cheeks again, spreading down his neck as he dares to meet Tadej’s gaze. His heart races wildly, and a tightness builds in his throat. He can’t help but wonder what this all means. They’ve kissed. Tadej is here, above him, his hands still on his skin, his eyes steady and warm. But does that mean he wants something real? Something lasting? Or is Jonas just a moment, a distraction, a brief spark that will fade? The questions swirl in his mind, overwhelming him until he feels almost dizzy.

Tadej, still above him, notices the change in his expression and laughs softly, his chest shaking against Jonas’s. He leans down, his hair brushing Jonas’s cheek, his breath warm and close.

"Why are you laughing again?" Jonas asks, his voice trembling slightly, more fragile than he intends.

"Jonas, I know you," Tadej answers with a smile, his hand moving from Jonas’s chest to his cheek, his thumb tracing its curve. "I can practically hear you thinking."

Jonas blinks, caught off guard, his lips parting soundlessly.

"I… uh…" he stammers.

Tadej moves even closer. Their noses brush, their breaths mingle.

"And the answer to your question is yes… Yes, Jonas. I want to be with you. I want to spend every minute of my life with you."

Jonas feels his heart tighten under the weight of emotion, his fingers clutching instinctively at Tadej’s shirt.

"You… really?" he whispers, almost disbelieving.

"Of course!" Tadej breathes, his eyes shining with unguarded sincerity. "Jonas, I don’t know if I’m the worst flirt in history or if you’re just blind, but I’ve been chasing you for weeks!"

Tadej’s hands move to cradle Jonas’s face, his thumbs brushing gently against flushed cheeks as he continues, his voice lower now, trembling slightly.

"I like you, Jonas. Really. You’re special, and I felt that the very first moment I saw you. I love spending time with you, I love how you make me feel, how I can just be myself when I’m with you. I love everything about you, your laugh, the way you notice the little things that no one else sees. I love the way you grumble when I tease you, I even love it when you tell me off and put me in my place. And I… God, you’re making me say all this, but…"

He laughs softly, nervously, the sound trembling in the warm air between them before he finds his words again.

"What I mean is… I’ve really grown attached to you. I want to be with you, to share everything with you, to build something real between us."

A wave of warmth and relief floods through Jonas. Now he knows, they want the same thing. His heartbeat slows for an instant before racing again, pounding against his ribs, and a soft, helpless smile spreads across his lips. His fingers rise to Tadej’s hair, twirling a strand around his finger before letting it go, an instinctive gesture he can’t bring himself to stop.

"Well," Jonas says quietly, a spark of mischief flickering in his eyes, his voice lower than he intended, "I think when you want something, sometimes you just have to ask nicely."

Tadej smiles, and his hand slides slowly beneath Jonas’s chin. His touch is firm but gentle, as if he’s afraid to break something delicate. He tilts Jonas’s face upward until their eyes meet, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"Alright then," Tadej begins, his voice warm but carrying a hint of nervousness, "Jonas Vingegaard, I think over the past few weeks you’ve become my favorite person in the world… would you do me the honor of officially becoming my boyfriend?"

Jonas’s heart seems to explode in his chest. His stomach tightens, his fingers clutch instinctively at the back of Tadej’s neck, and the air suddenly feels too thick to breathe, too heavy for words. Without thinking, he leans in and captures Tadej’s lips in a long, deep, lingering kiss. His hands slide into Tadej’s hair, tugging gently as their mouths move together in a tender rhythm. He feels Tadej’s breath quicken against his lips, their hearts beating in sync, perfectly aligned.

Tadej laughs softly against his mouth, that nervous, joyful laugh he can’t hold back.

"So… should I take that as a yes?" he murmurs, resting his forehead against Jonas’s.

Jonas closes his eyes, his nose brushing Tadej’s, and exhales with a trembling smile.

"It’s a yes."

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

Chapter Text

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻

They both lie down, and almost without thinking, Tadej wraps his arms around Jonas’s waist, pulling him gently against his body with an instinctive delicacy. The contact is soft, natural, as if their bodies had been made to fit together this way. Jonas exhales quietly, his muscles relaxing as he lets himself sink into the new warmth surrounding him. Tadej’s lips barely brush his neck in a timid, almost chaste kiss, while the Dane’s blond strands tickle his face. Exhausted, Jonas quickly drifts off to sleep, his body rising and falling in rhythm with his steady breathing.

Tadej, however, can’t close his eyes. Lying in the darkness, eyes wide open, his mind keeps circling back to everything Jonas confessed, to the pain he’s clearly been carrying for years. The sound of Jonas’s sobs still echoes in his head, uneven, broken. Those trembling, tear-filled eyes leave a hollow ache in Tadej’s chest, almost making him sick just thinking about it. How could Mikkel do that to him? Jonas is probably the kindest, most gentle, and hardworking person Tadej has ever met, and damn it, how could someone hurt him like that?

To go after a guy who’s alone, isolated, thousands of kilometers from home, with no family or friends to lean on… it’s pure cowardice. Tadej clenches his fists, feeling anger simmer under his skin. He’d kill the guy himself if he could.

And the guilt hits even harder, for not noticing sooner. He should have seen the signs: Jonas’s silences, his averted eyes, those forced smiles that looked too painful to be real. They’ve known each other for weeks, Tadej’s fallen in love with him, and still he didn’t manage to make Jonas feel safe enough to open up, to speak without fear or shame. He would never have judged him; he would have helped, supported him. And now he hates himself for not having made Jonas feel he could truly lean on him.

Running a nervous hand through his hair, Tadej gets up and starts pacing the room like a caged animal. The image of Jonas breaking down, crying in his arms, won’t leave him. He presses a hand to his face, overcome by a mix of helplessness and anger. Never again, he promises himself. Never again will Jonas face this alone. From now on, he’ll know he can count on him. Tadej swears it.

Unable to sleep, Tadej goes to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and grabs a glass, filling it with cold water before taking a sip. The liquid cools his throat, but it doesn’t ease the burning inside him. On his way back, his eyes fall on his phone left on the table. He sighs when the screen lights up. Past two in the morning. Whatever the person will reply tomorrow. His fingers fly across the keyboard, every word typed with tense precision. The perks of having visited nearly every restaurant in the area, shaken a few hands, and become a familiar face. And, well, being Tadej Pogačar opens doors that might otherwise stay closed. He’s not one to use his name that way, but tonight, he’ll make an exception. Once the message is sent, he sets the phone down and heads back to Jonas’s room.

Tadej walks back to the bed, sits gently on the edge, and runs a hesitant hand through Jonas’s blond hair. The Dane stirs slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but his sleep remains undisturbed. He’s still lying on his side, shoulders faintly hunched, as if even in sleep he’s curling up to protect himself. Tadej lifts the blanket, slips back in beside him, and wraps his arms around his waist. The contact soothes him as much as it hurts. He presses a slow kiss to the top of Jonas’s shoulder, his lips brushing the warm skin, and whispers softly in Slovene, “Sem tukaj, nisi več sam.” Then his eyelids grow heavy, and little by little, despite the tension still coiling in his chest, exhaustion finally pulls him under.

When he wakes the next morning, the light has already filled the room. Sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, spreading a soft glow across the crumpled sheets. Tadej inhales deeply, and at once the smell of fresh coffee reaches him, familiar, comforting. He stays there for a few seconds, still half-buried in the pillow, before slowly turning his head.

Jonas is there, sitting up against the headboard. His knees are drawn close, and resting on them is a small, worn notebook he holds firmly in one hand. With the other, he writes something intently, the pen gliding quickly over the page. His messy blond hair falls over his forehead, and he brushes it back absentmindedly, completely absorbed in his writing. Despite the fatigue still visible on his face, there’s a quiet calm about him that wasn’t there the night before. Tadej watches him in silence, his chest tightening with tenderness and admiration. The morning light traces his profile, and Tadej thinks he could stay like this forever, just watching him.

He props himself up on one elbow, careful not to disturb the stillness of the moment, then leans forward to press a light kiss on Jonas’s bare arm. Jonas barely startles, turning his head toward him, and when their eyes meet, still heavy with sleep, a smile blooms on his face. A soft, fragile, but genuine smile that chases away all the shadows from the night before.

Jonas closes his notebook slowly and leans toward him. Their faces draw close, and his lips find Tadej’s in a gentle, simple kiss. Tadej closes his eyes, welcoming the touch.

“Hey…” Jonas murmurs, his voice quiet, almost shy.

Tadej opens his eyes halfway, still heavy with sleep, and a tired smile spreads across his lips. “Hey,” he replies, his voice rough, still heavy from the night.

“Did you sleep well?” Jonas asks, his fingers brushing through Tadej’s messy hair, playing idly with the strands. The gesture is tender, almost instinctive, and Tadej lets his eyes close again for a second, savoring the touch.

“Yeah, I did,” he breathes, before lifting his gaze to him. “What about you? How are you feeling this morning?”

Jonas hesitates, his lips trembling slightly before a timid whisper escapes him. “Hum… I slept well. I… it helps me feel safe when you’re here.” His cheeks flush, as if he’s afraid of saying too much, but his gaze stays locked on Tadej’s. He looks away for a moment, then adds in a quieter voice, “I made you some coffee… I didn’t have any oat milk, so I used regular milk instead.”

A tender smile spreads across Tadej’s face, one he doesn’t bother to hide. “It’s perfect, Jonas. Thank you.”

He sits up slowly, brushing his lips along the Dane’s arm in a series of light, fluttering kisses, as if to thank him in a different way. Jonas shivers at the touch, his fingers instinctively tightening in Tadej’s messy hair. Tadej straightens a little more and grabs the steaming mug resting on the nightstand. The warmth seeps into his palms as he brings it to his lips. The first sip pulls a quiet sigh of contentment from him as the hot, comforting liquid slides down his throat.

Jonas takes a sip of his own coffee too, Tadej guesses it’s without milk, but with half a spoon of sugar, his usual morning habit.

Jonas then sets his mug back on the nightstand, picks up his pen, and leans again over his notebook. Tadej settles against the headboard, the sheets still rumpled around his waist, watching in silence. His lips curve into a small smile as he sees Jonas frown in concentration, then soften when an idea sparks and he rushes to write it down. Tadej could watch him for hours like this, Jonas, completely in his element, absorbed in what he loves.

“What are you writing?” he asks in a low, curious voice.

Jonas looks up, a little startled. “Oh, this… My dream is to become a sports journalist, so I write articles,” he explains shyly. “I love it. There’s just so much to talk about.”

Tadej nods slowly, remembering that Jonas had mentioned it before, but his curiosity grows. “Yeah, I remember you saying that… but you’ve never shown me anything! Can I read it?” he asks, leaning closer, his eyes gleaming with interest.

Jonas blushes, almost biting his lip in hesitation, but eventually nods. Tadej shifts closer, resting his chin gently on Jonas’s shoulder as his gaze drifts over the ink-filled pages.

“Jonas, this is amazing,” he says, genuinely impressed. “I usually never finish reading published articles most of them are just crap, shallow and meaningless, but this is completely different. The way you write, the phrasing, it’s brilliant. And the topic, mental health struggles in sports… no one ever talks about it, but it’s so important.”

Jonas looks away, his cheeks deepening in color. “Oh… thank you. That’s really kind. It’s not finished yet, but I’m hoping to have it done by the end of the week. This one… and maybe one or two more.”

Tadej tilts his head, intrigued. “Do you have to submit them for a class?”

Jonas shakes his head, his expression lighting up despite his shyness. “Not exactly, no… But I gave a few articles I’d written to one of my professors. He read them and told me they were excellent, that he hadn’t seen anything like that in thirty years. And… he knows someone who works for a big sports magazine. He’s going to send them my work and asked if I could give him a few more pieces.”

Tadej’s eyes widen immediately and he sits up so fast he nearly spills his coffee on the sheets. “Oh my god, Jonas, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me?” he blurts out, his voice full of excitement.

Jonas lowers his eyes, a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, I know… He told me yesterday, and after everything that happened, I didn’t really think about mentioning it.”

“I get that, but Jonas, this is incredible! It could be a huge opportunity!” Tadej insists, his grin bright and boyish.

Jonas nods carefully, his modesty quickly resurfacing. “Yeah, but… nothing’s certain yet. He’s just going to send my work, and we’ll see where it leads.”

“But that’s already great news!” Tadej replies with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m so proud of you!”

Jonas lets out a quiet laugh, his eyes shining despite himself. Tadej can’t help but beam, overjoyed to see Jonas’s hard work finally paying off. He deserves it more than anyone.

Without thinking, Tadej wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close, pressing a tender, lingering kiss on his lips. In a soft breath, his words slip between them. “I’m proud of you.”

He feels Jonas’s smile widen against his mouth, and warmth floods through his chest. The kiss deepens, maybe a little too much, because his mug wobbles precariously in his hand. Jonas quickly pulls back, clutching his notebook, and says in a mock-scolding tone, “Hey, you better not ruin my work!”

A beat of silence follows before their eyes meet, and they both burst into laughter at the same time. Tadej hurriedly sets the mug back on the nightstand, lifting his hands in mock innocence, a mischievous smile curving his lips. His playful gaze meets Jonas’s, who rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, unable to hide the affection that softens his expression.

“The good news is my afternoon classes got postponed,” Jonas adds, pointing to his notebook. “That gives me time to work on this.”

“That’s awesome! It means I get to stay with you all day!” Tadej exclaims, his eyes lighting up.

Jonas glances at him with an amused smile. “Aren’t you supposed to go on a ride?”

“You’re kidding,” Tadej mutters, shaking his head. “I saw the doctor yesterday, and he still doesn’t want me to start training again. The tear in my thigh’s still too fragile. I can pedal a bit, but no climbs, no hard efforts…” His voice fades into a murmur as his fingers unconsciously brush his thigh, where the pain had lingered for weeks and ended up ruining the end of his season.

The memory hits him again, the constant discomfort he tried to ignore, the miles endured through gritted teeth, the stabbing ache that spread with every push on the pedals. He’d forced himself to finish the race in Québec, refusing to give up, nearly collapsing off the bike when he finally crossed the line, his leg burning like fire. He knew he’d have to slow down, take a break, but he never expected the doctor’s verdict: a muscle tear that meant his season was over. It had hit him hard. He’d already been dreaming about the Tour of Lombardy in October, convinced he’d be ready, only to be told it was impossible. No racing, no comeback. Even his teammates, with a mix of affection and authority, had sworn they’d tie him to his bed if he tried sneaking out for a ride. Tadej had cried the entire night after hearing the news. He lowers his head, a bitter taste in his mouth, his fingers still tense on his thigh.

“Oh Tadej, I’m so sorry… I didn’t even ask you yesterday,” Jonas murmurs, his voice low. “Forgive me, I…”

“Hey, Jonas, don’t worry,” Tadej replies softly, his gaze steady on the Dane’s. “It’s nothing. I understand… You had a much harder day than I did.”

“But that doesn’t excuse it… I should have asked. I’m sorry.” Jonas insists, his clear eyes darting away for a second before meeting Tadej’s again.

He reaches out, and his fingers brush against Tadej’s thigh, where the pain still lingers like a silent burn. The touch is light, almost hesitant, but it sends an uncontrollable shiver through Tadej’s body. For a moment, he feels like a clumsy teenager again, every inch of him hyperaware of Jonas’s presence, every nerve ending sparking at the smallest contact.

“It’s your passion, it’s what you love most in the world… I’m sorry you’re being kept from it,” Jonas murmurs, his thumb tracing a small circle against Tadej’s tanned skin — a comforting gesture that makes Tadej’s heart race far faster than he’d like.

“I’m fine, Jonas, really,” Tadej says quietly, his smile warm and reassuring. “I’m a professional athlete — injuries are part of the game. We all know it from the start.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect you,” Jonas insists, his voice gentle yet firm, his eyes locked on Tadej’s. “And I… I’m here, okay? You can talk to me. Whenever you need someone to lean on, I want you to know I’ll be there. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you have mine.”

Tadej’s chest tightens. Those simple, sincere words hit him with unexpected force. A tender smile forms on his lips as he moves closer, resting his face against the curve of Jonas’s neck. The warmth of his skin and the familiar scent that reaches him make Tadej close his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you, Jonas,” he whispers, his lips brushing against his skin. Then he lifts his head slightly, his gaze meeting Jonas’s. “Same goes for you, okay? You can talk to me anytime something’s wrong. We’re together now… we’ll face it all as a team.”

A shy but genuine smile appears on Jonas’s lips. He then lifts his pinky finger toward Tadej — a simple, almost childlike gesture, but one filled with meaning. Tadej understands immediately and hooks his own finger around Jonas’s, their eyes meeting, Tadej captivated by the soft blue of Jonas’s irises.

“No more secrets between us?” Tadej asks quietly, a tender glint in his eyes.

“Promise,” Jonas replies softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

They smile at each other, fingers still intertwined like an invisible pact, until Tadej finally leans in, unable to resist any longer. His lips meet Jonas’s in a slow, loving kiss — one that says more than any of the words they’ve exchanged so far. Jonas responds immediately, his smile deepening against Tadej’s mouth.

“And you know what?” Tadej murmurs, his lips curving into a wider smile, his tone turning lighter. “If my thigh hadn’t given out, I’d probably be somewhere across the world right now, riding in circles, and I never would’ve had the chance to sit home feeling sorry for myself. I wouldn’t have had the brilliant idea of getting completely wasted in that bar…” He pauses, his eyes gleaming with amused affection as they rest on Jonas. “And I never would’ve met you. So I guess I owe a lot to that damn muscle tear.”

🚴🏻🚴🏻🚴🏻