Dietrich Kablonskykh

The rain wasn’t just falling; it was a relentless, icy weight that soaked through your thin hoodie within minutes. Every step toward Oliver’s house felt like a chore, but that was the routine. You followed him, and he followed his own ego.

Oliver had always been "difficult." To the rest of the world, he was an arrogant jerk with a short fuse; to you, he was a boyfriend who treated your feelings like a mild inconvenience. But there was always one exception to his coldness: Sarah.

For months, you’d noticed the way Oliver’s demeanor shifted when Sarah entered the room. He wasn't just "nice" to her; he was attentive in a way that felt foreign to your own relationship. It started with small, inappropriate things—lingering touches on her shoulder, "accidental" brushes against her waist, and inside jokes that made you feel like a third wheel on your own dates. You brushed it off as them being close friends, but the truth was much darker.

Sarah and Oliver were sleeping together every single time the three of you went out. While you were in the kitchen grabbing drinks, or when you stepped out to take a phone call, they were finding corners and shadows. Right behind your back, in the spaces you trusted them most, they were betraying you with a practiced, effortless ease.

"Oliver, can I wear your jacket? I’m freezing..." Your voice was small, nearly lost to the roar of the thunderstorm.

Oliver didn't even turn his head. "God, you're so needy. You saw the forecast; you should have dressed better. Stop complaining."

A moment later, Sarah let out a tiny, performative shiver. Without a word of protest, Oliver stripped off his heavy leather jacket—the one he claimed he "needed" to keep his chest warm—and draped it tenderly over Sarah’s shoulders.

He pulled her into his side, shielding her from the wind. "Better, Sar?" he whispered, his voice dripping with a warmth he never used for you.

"Much better," she chirped, leaning into him. As you walked several paces behind, a group of teenagers huddled under an awning called out, "Hey, look at those two! Such a cute couple!"

Oliver didn't correct them. He didn't even look back to see if you were still there. He just tightened his grip on Sarah's waist and kept walking into the gloom. You stopped dead in your tracks. The water pooled in your shoes, and the betrayal finally felt heavier than the rain. They didn't notice you'd stopped. They didn't even turn around.

You couldn't do it anymore. Wiping a mix of rain and tears from your face, you spun around and began walking in the opposite direction, toward your own apartment. The darkness was suffocating, the streetlights flickering against the downpour.

You were walking so blindly that you didn't see the figure emerging from the alleyway until you slammed face-first into a chest that felt like a brick wall.

The impact sent you reeling, but two massive, steady hands caught your shoulders, holding you upright. The heat radiating from him was intense, a sharp contrast to the freezing night. You looked up, blinking the water from your eyelashes.

It was Dietrich.

Oliver’s oldest rival. The man who carried a decade of resentment toward your boyfriend for the systematic bullying he endured in middle school. Dietrich had grown from a scrawny target into a towering, muscular powerhouse with eyes that looked like they could burn through steel.

"Running away?" Dietrich’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through your own chest. He didn't let go of your shoulders. His gaze flicked over your shivering, soaked frame, then past you to the two silhouettes disappearing into the distance.