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The guest room smelled of mothballs and old wood polish—Alric’s way of making sure the house didn’t feel too empty, even when Grimmel was curled up like a wounded animal in bed. Rain tapped against the window. It had been raining all week, ever since Cole left.
Grimmel stared at the ceiling, one arm tucked under his head, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on Alric’s quilt—the same quilt that had covered him as a homesick teenager fresh from Russia. The same quilt that now covered him after being dumped by another man who called him “a stuck-up dick and a nagging, hermaphrodite bitch” before slamming the door on him.
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, but it did nothing to quiet the storm inside. His chest felt tight with rejection—from parents who disowned him for existing wrong, lovers who couldn't love what they didn't understand, life itself for throwing so much pain onto someone who just wanted to teach chemistry and pay rent on time.
A gentle knock sounded on the door. Grimmel jumped.
“Hey, kid? You awake?” Alric’s voice called.
Grimmel sat up and wiped away the tear streaks on his cheeks. “Y-yes, I’m awake.”
“Good. Your friend’s here.”
Grimmel’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Which friend?” he asked.
“The loud, friendly, stupid one.”
Moments later, Ragnar burst in, his arms carrying grocery bags full of snacks. “Hey, Grimmel!” Ragnar greeted, wearing his usual cheery smile.
Grimmel’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?” he asked. He eyed the bags full of snacks—chips, chocolate, gummies, ice cream, and more. “And what is that?”
“I call it my Emergency Breakup Snack Pack!” Ragnar placed the bags down on a desk nearby and wrapped Grimmel up in a tight, warm hug, squeezing Grimmel hard, the kind of hug that felt like armor against the world.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were soft with concern. He took one look at Grimmel’s tired face—the puffy eyes, the way his shoulders slumped—and immediately grabbed a tub from the snack pile.
“Lemon ice cream,” Ragnar announced proudly, holding it up like a trophy. “Your favorite!” He spoke in a deep, mechanical voice, moving like a robot as he set the tub in Grimmel’s lap. “Comfort food: Deployed.”
Grimmel was so touched and baffled that he just couldn’t speak as his friend pulled out more food.
“Okay, rule number one,” Ragnar said as he plopped onto the bed beside him and tore open two Cool Ranch Doritos bags (because they both knew those were Grimmel’s comfort chips). “No talking about Cole unless it’s to roast his shitty ass.” Then came dark chocolate bars and bags of gummy worms and black licorice. “Rule number two: Eat your feelings and don’t be afraid to grab seconds. Rule number three: Snacks shared are snacks best.” He tossed everything into Grimmel's lap.
Grimmel let out a cracked laugh mixed with a sob. Seeing all that care packed into snacks? It hit harder than any slap or punch ever could. “You’re an idiot,” he croaked, leaning against Ragnar as he settled beside him on the bed. “But you’re the best friend ever.”
Ragnar’s grin softened, and he slung an arm around Grimmel’s shoulders, pulling him snug against his side like they were in college in their 20s again—sharing a blanket on the couch during thunderstorms. He didn’t tease. Didn’t make light of the crying or shove tissues at him (though a packet of them did magically appear in Grimmel's hand from Ragnar's back pocket). Instead, he just stayed there. Solid as stone like he was Grimmel’s only rock.
Grimmel opened the tub of lemon ice cream and took a bite, melting instantly. He exhaled through his nose like that single taste had unraveled something tight in his chest.
Ragnar watched him quietly for a second before asking, “Want me to stay over tonight? We can marathon random movies and eat everything until we pass out.”
Grimmel nodded. “Yes, please.”
Before he knew it, he and Ragnar had built a blanket-and-pillow fort in his room and were sitting on the floor, watching Disney movies and sharing all the snacks. The glow of the laptop screen painted warm gold streaks across Grimmel’s face as Hercules played—Ragnar had brought the DVD because he knew Grimmel secretly loved the music.
Alric peeked in around 8 PM, holding a mug of tea. The sight stopped him cold: Grimmel curled up under a fluffy blanket, spoon still loosely in hand with lemon ice cream melting slightly; Ragnar sprawled beside him like an overgrown puppy, tossing gummy worms into his mouth between laughs; empty chip bags and candy wrappers scattered across the floor like confetti after a party.
For weeks, Alric had watched his nephew fade—quiet meals, no calls from friends, eyes dull. Now? This was life again.
He smiled—the kind that crinkled all around his eyes—and quietly backed out without making noise. He didn’t need to say anything. Seeing Grimmel smile through tears? That was enough for now.
Back inside their little nest of snacks and Disney magic, Ragnar nudged Grimmel with his elbow when Phil showed up singing "One Last Hope".
“By the way, I’m really glad you’re finally breaking up with him,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows. “Now I can hook you up with the hot military guy that goes to the gym with me.”
Grimmel nearly choked on his ice cream and stared at Ragnar like he’d grown a second head. “What?!” he balked. “Absolutely not! I’m nowhere near ready for another relationship yet.”
“No, really! He’s great, I mean it!” Ragnar insisted. He spread out his hands in front of him like he was looking out across a landscape. “Picture this: thirty-one, six-foot-four, mixed race, dreadlocks like a lion, biceps the width of my thighs, Marine for five years, lost an arm in a training accident and wears this badass DERPA metal arm that moves like it’s real, Malamute dog, works from home for American Express when he’s not deployed—looks scary but super nice guy, adopted a son who’s twenty-one now and is off overseas as an Airforce pilot—oh, and did I mention he’s so jacked that he looks like he could bench press a truck or crush a watermelon with one arm flex?” Ragnar topped it off.
“Have you been stalking this man on my behalf?” Grimmel balked, stunned by the detailed description but also intrigued.
Ragnar grinned, completely unapologetic. “Nope! I just know him. We meet up at the gym every Thursday; he’s always there on the bench press or doing deadlifts with that robot arm of his like it's nothing.” He leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief and sincerity mixed together. “His name’s Drago Bludvist. He joined last month—didn’t say a word for weeks, just showed up and started lifting twice his body weight.” Ragnar mimed flexing dramatically. “And when he finally spoke? Mm! Like gravel under tires.”
Grimmel listened despite himself—the image forming: a massive man with a full six pack, an intimidating cyborg arm…but also kind? A dad?
Ragnar saw Grimmel softening slightly. “He also brought me coffee once after I dropped mine,” he added quietly. "He didn’t have to do that, but he’s a nice guy." Then he smirked again. “And you’d be perfect for him."
Grimmel was overwhelmed by all this information. “Why me? We sound like total opposites,” he pointed out.
“Exactly! It’s the adult version of a high school jock and nerd love story!” Ragnar beamed.
“Alright, alright! You’ve made your point,” Grimmel rolled his eyes and shoved Ragnar. “The answer is still no.”
Ragnar groaned dramatically. “Ugh, fine.” He didn’t take “no” for an answer for long. “But maybe in a few months when you’re less emotionally shattered, I could introduce you two?”
Grimmel scoffed and turned back to the movie. “We’ll see about that.”
A couple of months later, Grimmel managed to find a nice apartment that he could afford downtown. His uncle and friends helped him move in, and the neighbors seemed friendly enough.
Once everything was unpacked, Ragnar suggested they go out to celebrate at the local country-themed bar to drink and dance the night away. Alric opted out, but the agreement was largely unanimous.
The bar pulsed with warm golden light, neon signs casting red and blue streaks across the wooden floors. Country music thumped—not too loud, but enough to make boots stomp in rhythm.
Grimmel stood near a high-top table by the wall, whiskey on rocks in hand. The glass fogged slightly from his fingers—not that he minded cold drinks. He took small sips between watching his friends dance. Chaghatai spun Griselda around in a two-step dance move they’d clearly practiced (or maybe just improvised). Ragnar danced beside them like he owned the place, completely goofing off and accidentally bumping into other people.
Grimmel chuckled at them. He liked it this way. No pressure, no dancing—just good company, whiskey, and seeing Ragnar be stupidly happy.
Suddenly, Grimmel felt a hand grip his shoulder.
“Well, somebody get me a glass,” the random man purred. “‘Cause I just found me a tall drink of water.”
Grimmel turned his head to glare at the stranger—a lanky guy with messy red-brown hair and glassy eyes, clearly very drunk. The man was smirking, leaning way too close into Grimmel's personal space.
He stiffened slightly. This guy reeked of alcohol and cheap cologne, and he had that look—the kind of look Grimmel had seen plenty of after he broke up with Cole: men looking for a hookup.
“Are you quite finished?” Grimmel asked calmly.
“Baby, I just got started,” the man grinned, coming closer like he was going to kiss him.
Grimmel shoved him away and backed up. “I have a boyfriend,” he lied, thinking quick.
The drunk guy stumbled back, blinking in surprise, then laughed it off like Grimmel was joking and took a wobbly step forward again, arms spreading like he expected a hug or worse. "Yeah right! Where’s the lucky guy? Where is he?" the man slurred loudly—drawing attention from nearby tables.
“He’s—” Grimmel looked around for Ragnar. He couldn’t see him through the crowd. “He’s, um…”
The drunk man’s grin widened and he reached for Grimmel again, until a shadow fell over him and a large, metallic hand landed on his shoulder.
“He’s right behind you.”
The guy froze and slowly turned to face the source—and came eye-to-chest with him.
Built like a six-foot-high brick wall, the man glared down at the drunk with cold fury. His muscular chest showed even through his black shirt, dreadlocks cascading down his back and shoulders, and a chain of army tags around his neck.
Grimmel’s breath hitched. He recognized him instantly from pictures Ragnar had showed him.
Drago Bludvist.
Without hesitation, Drago pushed past the drunk and slung his flesh arm around Grimmel's waist in a protective embrace, pulling him close against his side.
"This guy bothering you, babe?" Drago asked Grimmel—voice warm but eyes sharp as knives toward the stranger.
Grimmel’s cheeks turned pink. Babe?
This man had just called Grimmel babe. In a crowded tavern. With that deep, gravelly voice like a thunderclap. And the way he held him—solid, massive—like Grimmel was something precious and not to be touched without permission. The metal arm glinted under the bar lights as it rested firmly on Grimmel's hip.
Grimmel’s heart pounded so hard he swore Drago could feel it through his ribs. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He just stared wide-eyed at this man who looked exactly like Ragnar described: terrifyingly handsome in a brutish kind of way…but also weirdly gentle?
The drunk guy turned white and he stammered, “I-I didn’t know he was taken!"
Drago didn't bat an eye. "Now you do."
“Ah—yes!” Grimmel quickly said, his mouth catching up with his mind. His hand reached out to entwine with Drago’s as he pressed himself against his side for show. “This creep tried to grab me and wouldn’t leave me alone when I said no.”
Drago’s jaw tightened. This fucker had the audacity to try and grab someone when they told him no? Not on his watch.
Without a word, Drago grabbed the man by his shirt collar—lifting him off his feet—and got right in his face.
"You touch him that way again—you touch anyone that way again," Drago growled lowly, “and I break every single finger on that hand."
The drunk guy paled further, nervously muttering an apology before scampering away like a rat.
Drago waited until he was gone before releasing Grimmel. His whole face softened. “You okay?”
Grimmel’s breath was still a little shaky—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of what just happened. One second, some idiot drunk guy harassing him. The next, Drago Bludvist, in the flesh, appearing like a vengeful god to defend his honor.
And he’d called Grimmel “babe.” And held his hand. And threatened to break someone’s fingers over him.
Holy shit.
“Y-yes,” Grimmel finally managed, voice quieter than usual. “I’m alright. Uh…thanks.”
He looked up at Drago—those long black dreadlocks falling forward slightly, those green eyes searching his face with quiet concern—and felt something weird flutter low in his stomach. Not attraction yet (okay, maybe a little), but awe? Gratitude? A stupid urge to kiss this man?
Ragnar had been right about one thing: This guy really was hot as hell.
“I’m Grimmel.”
The large man smiled, surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like a freaking bodybuilder. “Drago. Nice to meet you," he said in that deep voice of his, shaking Grimmel’s hand.
Grimmel’s fingers curled into Drago’s—warm, calloused, strong. And that smile—oh god, it transformed Drago’s whole face. Gone was the terrifying Marine with a death glare; now he just looked like someone who read bedtime stories to little kids and adopted stray dogs.
“Nice to meet you too,” Grimmel said softly—too soft for a bar, probably—but honestly? He didn’t care about noise or music right now. The noise of the bar faded into the background as they stood there awkwardly.
Ragnar chose that exact moment to push through the crowd after noticing them from across the room. His eyes widened when he saw who had joined his bestie—and then immediately lit up with smug victory.
“Well?” he sang. “What’d I tell ya? He’s great, right?”
Grimmel rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you win.”
Ragnar beamed like he’d just won the lottery, throwing his arms up in victory. “I knew it! I called this!” He bounced slightly on his toes—still tipsy from dancing—and then suddenly lunged forward to hug Grimmel, squeezing him tight.
“You’re welcome,” Ragnar whispered dramatically into his ear before pulling back and flashing Drago a grin. "Thanks for saving my friend, Drag."
“Hey, boys,” Griselda said, walking over with Chaghatai.
Chaghatai looked between Drago and Grimmel, smiling. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You really would stop at nothing to get them together.”
“Wait, what?” Grimmel did a double take. “You two knew about this?”
“Against our will,” Griselda replied, rolling her eyes. “Ragnar wouldn’t shut up for three days straight about his plans to make you two meet and then lock you in a closet.”
“Excuse me?” Drago’s eyebrows went up.
Before anybody could ask anymore questions, Ragnar grabbed Griselda and Chaghatai by the hands without warning, shooting Grimmel a wink. "C'mon! Let's give the lovebirds some space!"
And just like that—they vanished into the crowd again, leaving Grimmel alone with six-foot-four of pure military hunk.
A beat of silence passed, then Drago cleared his throat. “Those your friends?” he inquired.
Grimmel nodded, still a little dazed. “Yeah.” He gestured toward where his friends had disappeared—Griselda laughing as Chaghatai spun her in a dance move and Ragnar cheered them on. “They’re…kind of my only family now,” he added quietly, not meaning to sound sad but realizing it anyway.
Then he glanced back at Drago—really looked at him this time: the way his dreadlocks fell over his shoulders, how his eyes were warm despite their intensity, and that stupidly perfect jawline.
Grimmel scratched the back of his neck. “So uh…Ragnar told me you go to the gym.”
“Every Tuesday and Thursday,” Drago confirmed. His blue sleeves were rolled up, exposing his strong forearms. “When you’re in the army, it never hurts to build up muscle.” He flexed one arm, the muscle beneath bulging. Something flip-flopped in Grimmel’s stomach.
Oh no.
He was not supposed to be this affected by a flex. He wasn’t some dumb romance novel heroine swooning over biceps.
But damn, those forearms—corded with muscle, veins slightly visible from training—were obscene. And the way Drago flexed so casually like it was nothing?
The flip-flop in his stomach turned into full-on gymnastics.
His cheeks warmed instantly. To cover it up, Grimmel took a quick sip of whiskey—only to realize his glass was empty now. Of course it was. Timing always sucked.
Drago noticed. “Here, I’ll buy you another drink,” he offered. He tapped the counter, signalling one of the bartenders. He ordered a beer for himself, and glanced at Grimmel. “Whiskey on rocks, right?”
Grimmel blinked, surprised. “You…noticed what I was drinking?”
“Yup,” Drago said, handing Grimmel his drink after it was brought to him. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while since I walked in.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just wasn’t sure how to approach you without looking like a creep.”
Grimmel’s breath caught. ‘He’d had his eye on me?’
The words hit like a slow punch to the chest—warm, flattering, dangerous.
Drago was watching him this whole time, while Grimmel stood there awkwardly sipping whiskey and avoiding dancing like a socially anxious chemistry teacher.
And Drago—this huge, gorgeous Marine dad with a metal arm and army tags—had been nervous too?
That…changed everything.
A small smile tugged at Grimmel's lips as he took the fresh whiskey glass from him. Their fingertips brushed again.
"Thanks," Grimmel said softly before taking a sip. “You could've approached me anytime."
Drago took a swig of his beer. “Yeah, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”
Grimmel snorted softly. "You? Freak me out?" He gestured vaguely at Drago, who looked like he could bench press a car. "You're the least intimidating person here," he admitted with a smirk. "That drunk guy was way scarier than you."
Drago raised an eyebrow—amused but surprised by the compliment (or insult? it was hard to tell).
A comfortable silence fell between them—easy this time. Not awkward anymore. Just two guys standing in a bar after meeting for the first time.
"Hey, um..." Drago said after a second. "Would you like to dance with me?"
Grimmel’s eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. Dancing? He wasn't the type to dance, but…
"I’d like that," he grinned, wide and genuine.
They downed the rest of their drinks, Drago paid, and they left the glasses on the bar counter. Without another word, Drago took Grimmel’s hand again and led him toward the dance floor. The music was a slow R&B song—perfect for beginners like them.
Drago and Grimmel fell into a surprisingly smooth rhythm with each other, like they’d known each other for forever. Grimmel openly laughed as Drago spun and dipped him. He hadn’t felt this happy since…
Since…
No. This wasn’t about Cole. This was Drago. The man who had defended Grimmel out of nowhere, who spun him like he weighed nothing, whose metal arm stayed perfectly steady when guiding him back up from a dip. The man who laughed when Grimmel fumbled the step and stepped on his boot.
Grimmel hadn’t danced like this in years. Not since high school prom with Ragnar making fun of him for being stiff. But here, with Drago, it felt natural. Easy. Like they’d been dancing together forever.
The music shifted into another slow jam as the two of them stood there chatting on the dance floor.
“So, besides being a Marine,” Grimmel said as he and Drago slow-danced. “Ragnar also told me that you work remotely in finance. Is that right?”
“Yeah. I started out in an autoshop when I was younger, but moved into finance after my first deployment,” Drago said, holding Grimmel by the waist. “I work from home most of the time, so I can pretty much do whatever I want all day. Makes good money, too.”
Grimmel smirked. “What, trying to win me over with a rich-man speech?”
Drago barked out a laugh, the sound rich and warm. “Nah, just stating facts,” he said with a playful shrug. "But..." He pulled Grimmel slightly closer, their bodies now flush as they swayed to the music. "If you're into well-off men, I could buy you dinner after this."
Grimmel’s heart skipped a beat. “You’ve barely known me for an minute.”
Drago’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider. “I know,” he said simply, voice low and smooth over the music. “But I like you.”
He rested one large hand (flesh side) gently against Grimmel's lower back, keeping him close as they swayed together in perfect sync with the rhythm.
“You’re smart,” Drago added quietly. “I can tell by how you talk. You dance good. And Ragnar wouldn't have sent me your way if you weren't worth meeting.” Each compliment hit Grimmel like warm sunlight.
Drago brushed a loose strand of hair from Grimmel's forehead as he added, "It’s up to you. It’ll be my treat. No strings attached unless you want 'em."
Grimmel was stunned. This was moving fast—they had only heard about each other through a mutual friend mere weeks ago, they’d just met, and Drago was already asking him out? But the man had a point. Grimmel was good-looking, smart, and he deserved someone who treated him right after Cole.
"Yeah," he finally said with a small smile. "Dinner sounds good."
The second the words left his mouth, Ragnar—who had been shamelessly watching from across the dance floor—pumped his fist in silent victory, whispering to himself, “Fuck yeah!”
A couple of hours later, Drago and Grimmel left the bar, and Drago got them dinner at a cozy little diner down the street; warm booths, checkered floors, and vintage jukeboxes playing old rock songs. They sat across from each other over shared fries and milkshakes (Grimmel got vanilla; Drago had chocolate with extra whipped cream).
They talked about everything: Ragnar’s endless teasing, Grimmel's chemistry class, Drago's Malamute named Muddy, etcetera. There were no awkward silences. Just easy conversation, and occasional touches—fingers brushing when reaching for food, shoulders pressing as they slid into the booth together.
It felt…normal. Right.
After that, Drago was more than happy to drive Grimmel back to his new apartment, pulling into the small driveway.
“This is it?” Drago asked, looking up where the small balcony overlooked the street.
“Yup. It’s not much, but right now, it’s home,” Grimmel said. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. “Thank you. For everything.”
Just as he started to climb out, Drago grabbed his hand. “Wait!” he stopped him. “Uh—before I forget, could I get your number?”
Grimmel froze halfway out of the car, turning back to look at Drago.
His number?
That simple question hit Grimmel like a lightning bolt—because it wasn’t just about contact. It meant this isn't over. This was a real chance for something…more.
Without hesitation, Grimmel pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it before handing it over. “Go ahead.”
Drago took the sleek device with careful fingers (metal ones holding it) and typed in his number, then titled himself ⚔️ Drago ⚔️
He handed the phone back. “So,” he said as Grimmel climbed out of the car. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
Grimmel nodded, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Yes, I will…see you around.”
There was a softness in the air—not awkward, not forced—but gentle, like they were both being careful with each other.
Drago didn’t push. Didn’t lean in and make things weird. Instead, he gave Grimmel that warm smile again—the one that made his eyes crinkle—and said, "Goodnight."
He waited until Grimmel got safely to his door before starting up the car.
When Grimmel got inside, he closed the door behind him and his phone lit up with a text from that new number.
⚔️Drago⚔️:
Can’t wait to see you again
Grimmel’s heart leapt. He sent back: You too. Goodnight.
Night.
He headed upstairs once he heard Drago’s car drive away. He set his bag on the coffee table, laid down on the couch, and screamed into a pillow.
‘Drago Bludvist texted me. Drago Bludvist took me on a date. Drago Bludvist is hot and sweet and wants to see me again.’
This wasn’t supposed to happen! Not this fast! He thought that Ragnar had set him up as a joke—but somehow, it actually worked?!
Grimmel stared at the ceiling of his quiet apartment—the first time he’d lived alone in years—and felt…light. Happy. Like maybe things were finally turning around for him.
His phone buzzed with a call. Ragnar.
Grimmel picked up and before he could say a word, Ragnar yelled, “WHAT DID I FUCKING TELL YOU???”
Grimmel yelped, pulling the phone away from his ear as Ragnar’s voice exploded through the speaker.
“I TOLD YOU!” Ragnar shrieked again. “I knew he was perfect for you! Did he kiss you? Did he ask for your number? Was it romantic? TELL ME EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW.”
Grimmel groaned and flopped back onto the couch, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
“He didn’t kiss me,” Grimmel admitted quietly—because yeah, okay fine… maybe he’d hoped for it a little. “But…we went out to dinner, and he just texted me saying he can’t wait to see me again.”
Ragnar let out a dramatic, exaggerated GASP on the other end of the line—like Grimmel had just announced he’d won the lottery.
“Oh my god. He’s so into you. That man doesn’t text first unless he likes someone.”
Grimmel could practically hear Ragnar grinning through the phone.
“Did you flirt? Did you laugh at his jokes? Was he all sweet and protective like I said?”
Grimmel chuckled, rubbing his temple. “Yeah…he was sweet. Protective? Definitely—he scared off that drunk guy like a damn bodyguard.”
Ragnar cackled. “I knew it! He’s got that whole ‘silent guardian’ vibe going on.” He lowered his voice slightly, turning serious for once. “Grimmel… you okay? Like, emotionally okay? This is fast and new and I don’t want you rushing into anything just ‘cause Drago seems perfect—which he is—but y’know what I mean?”
Grimmel exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch. “I’m okay,” he said honestly. “It is fast…but it also feels…right. Like something good finally happened after months of garbage.” He twisted a strand of hair around his finger—a nervous habit. “Drago didn’t push anything. Didn’t try to kiss me or pressure me for more than I was ready for. He just…liked being with me.”
Ragnar sighed happily on the other end—the sound of pure joy from someone who had successfully played matchmaker. “I’m so proud,” he whispered dramatically.
Grimmel smiled to himself. “So…now what?”
Ragnar’s voice perked up instantly, all business. "Now? Now you text him back if you haven't already. Flirt a little—nothing intense, just something cute. Then maybe plan a second date soon? Like, ask him to do something simple. Coffee this weekend? A walk with his dog?"
The idea of meeting Drago's giant Malamute made Grimmel's heart flutter weirdly—not in fear, but excitement.
"And don't overthink it," Ragnar added. "Just go with the flow. You deserve someone who treats you right…and that man clearly fits the bill."
Grimmel smiled. “Thanks for this.”
“Anytime, buddy! Goodnight!”
“Night.”
They hung up, and the rest of the night passed peacefully.
Grimmel took a quick shower, changed into some pajamas, and curled up in bed—still buzzing from the sudden date. The apartment was quiet; nothing but the hum of the fridge and the occasional car passing outside.
He checked his phone one more time before turning off his lamp. No new messages…but that was okay.
Drago Bludvist.
A real chance at something good—a fresh start with someone kind who actually liked him for him?
Yeah…things were looking up.