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He ate the lo mein cold, standing at the counter, because there was no one to judge him.

He thought about Chad’s apartment—art supplies, probably. Dishes in the sink. A roommate’s noise through the walls.

His gaze drifted to the living room. Bookshelves. The leather couch. The framed photographs on the mantel.

No art on the walls. He’d never thought about that before.

His phone buzzed.

Chad: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. Hope that’s not too forward.

Hank looked at the message. At the careful phrasing—hope that’s not too forward—from a man who had, less than twenty-four hours ago, grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him across a bar.

He typed back. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again.

Sent: Not too forward at all. I’m looking forward to it too. Have a good night.

He stared at the screen.

You had something honest, and you edited it into a greeting card.

The reply came quickly: You too. Sweet dreams.

And then, a moment later, a smiley face. Just the little yellow circle with its uncomplicated grin.

Hank smiled at his phone with an intensity that would have alarmed his staff.

He set it down. Picked it up. Read the exchange again. Set it down.

You are a sitting United States Senator smiling at a smiley face in your kitchen. This is who you are now.

He did not seem to mind.

Later.

Hank lay in bed, the apartment dark except for the thin line of light from the hallway, the ceiling fan turning above him. Not thinking about Todd. Not thinking about anyone safe, or distant, or impossible.

Thinking about a bartender with blue eyes who had kissed him like it was simple. Like it was something people just did—leaned across the space between them and closed it.

“Google, play soft classical.”

Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 filled the room, gentle and aching, the notes falling like something being let go.

On his nightstand: the lotion, the folded washcloth, the water glass he set out every night because he was a man of routine. His phone beside them, dark now.

And in his briefcase by the door, a CVS bag containing condoms and water-based lubricant, purchased with cash by a United States Senator who had kissed one man in his entire life.

Hopeful.

Hank closed his eyes.

Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 3

Hank arrived at the Foggy Bottom address Chad had texted him—a modest brick building on H Street—at exactly six-thirty. He’d been ready since five forty-five, pacing his apartment, checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror every ten minutes like a teenager preparing for prom.

He’d changed clothes three times. The first outfit—khakis and a light blue Oxford—looked too senatorial. The second—jeans and a polo—looked like he was headed to a golf course. He’d finally settled on dark jeans and a black button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Still him, but less… rigid.