#bryle

The following Friday came wrapped in silence.

Kyle had spent most of the week orbiting interviews, rehearsal calls, wardrobe consultations, and a thousand urgent emails that all said

"Just checking in!"

with terrifying cheerfulness. He replied to almost none of them.

Instead, his mind kept returning to that dim bar. To the odd calm he'd found sitting across from Brede Bremnes. To how different the model had been from the glossy images that floated through bus stops and Instagram stories.

There was still something he couldn't quite decode about him.

So when a simple message arrived late Friday morning—"Feel like being off the grid for a night?"—Kyle responded without hesitation.

"Yes. Say when."

"I'll pick you up at 7."

Brede arrived at Kyle's apartment like he was allergic to being seen. A cap low over his face, tinted sunglasses despite the hour, sleeves pushed up in a way that shouldn't have looked deliberate but did.

Kyle watched him from the window, amused.

He dressed simply: black jeans, silver boots, a vintage Eurovision tee he'd found in a Bergen thrift shop years ago. His only flash was a glitter nail polish leftover from the final. It had chipped but still sparkled in the hallway light.

"Nice ride," Kyle said, sliding into the passenger seat. Brede's car was unassuming, sleek, grey, the kind of thing you'd overlook in a parking lot and then see in a magazine ad for 'discreet power.'

"I borrowed it from a friend," Brede said. "I don't really drive much in Oslo."

"Let me guess," Kyle teased. "You prefer helicopters."

Brede glanced over, a half-smile on his lips. "No. I prefer boats. But I figured you wouldn't want to freeze to death on your second unofficial date."

Kyle blinked. "So this is a date?"

Brede didn't look at him. He changed lanes. Smoothly. Quietly.

"Call it a social experiment."

They drove for forty minutes, trading bits of music. Kyle played the first rough demo of a Eurovision revamp he was working on: less pyrotechnics, more strings. Brede said nothing until the track ended, and then murmured

"You sound less like you're performing, and more like you're saying something you actually mean."

That lingered.

Eventually, they reached a cabin tucked behind a veil of pine and birch near Nordmarka. No one else was there. Just forest, moonlight, and the faint smell of firewood already burning.

Kyle stared up at the sky as they stepped out.

"You can actually see stars here."

"You can see yourself better, too," Brede said quietly.

Inside the cabin, the silence felt intentional. Brede made a fire. Kyle kicked off his boots and curled onto the leather sofa like he'd done it a hundred times. They barely spoke for a while. The sound of the crackling fire became their language.

When Brede finally sat beside him, a low stretch of space remained between them, filled only with tension and heat.

"You're quieter than I expected," Kyle said.

"And you're louder than you want to be."

Kyle turned his head, eyes narrowing. "You always speak in riddles?"

"I model for a living. Ambiguity is part of the contract."

Kyle laughed. "So is silence, I guess."

Brede didn't deny it. He picked up a book from the table, some poetry collection, weathered and translated. Read a single line out loud:

"There are places in the world that echo before you even speak."

Then he looked at Kyle. Direct. "That's how I felt the first time I saw you on stage."

Kyle didn't say anything.

Because he felt it too.

That strange pre-echo. That moment in the dark when you feel someone else reaching across the quiet.

Later, they played music—old vinyl records, Norwegian ambient, queer indie tracks from Denmark and drank something warm with cinnamon and honey in chipped mugs.

Kyle lay with his head resting on the arm of the couch, legs stretched across Brede's lap, neither of them saying anything for the longest time.

When Kyle finally broke the silence, his voice was soft:

"You know they're going to tear me apart once rehearsals start."

Brede tilted his head. "Who?"

"The Eurovision vultures. The press. The cynics. The ones who think glitter's a mask for lack of depth."

"Is it?"

Kyle hesitated. "No. It's armor."

Brede gently rested a hand over Kyle's shin, the pressure warm, grounding.

"I think you're allowed to wear armor. As long as you know when to take it off."

A long breath passed between them.

In that moment, neither of them moved. Not closer, not away. They didn't need to. There was something precious in the non-movement. In the decision not to break the tension. In the kind of closeness that trusted time more than impulse.

Brede broke the silence. "Stay here tonight."

Kyle blinked. "I didn't pack anything."

"You're wearing enough stardust to count as pajamas."

Kyle grinned. "That's the most model-thing anyone's ever said to me."

And he stayed.

Not because he was tired, or lost, or starstruck.