Page 31 of Keep

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They drove in silence for a few more blocks. Chad could see Hank’s jaw working again, his hands tight on the wheel. Then Hank opened his mouth like he was about to say something else—something about work, maybe, the thing he kept circling—and closed it again. Swallowed. Let it go.

Whatever it is, it’s eating him alive.

“You can still change your mind,” Hank said instead. “If you want to go home, I’ll take you home. No questions asked.”

Chad leaned over the console and put his mouth close to Hank’s ear.

“Hank,” he whispered. “Drive faster.”

Hank laughed—rough, startled out of himself.

The car accelerated.

Hank’s building was a modest mid-rise on South Capitol Street, brick and functional. Underground garage, key card gate, a parking spot marked with his unit number.

They sat in the car after Hank killed the engine. Neither moved.

“This is it,” Hank said.

“This is it.”

“We can still⁠—”

Chad kissed him. Meant it to be brief—reassuring, a period at the end of a sentence. But Hank’s hand came up to the back of Chad’s head, fingers in his hair, and the kiss kept going. Chad made a sound he didn’t plan, and Hank tried to pull him closer, defeated by the console between them. Probably for the best. They were in a parking garage under fluorescent lights, and Chad was already hard.

When they broke apart, breathing rough, Hank rested his forehead against Chad’s.

“Come upstairs,” Hank said. “Please.”

“Okay.”

The elevator. Fourth floor. Doors closing.

The moment they were alone, Hank pressed him against the wall and kissed him deeper—more confident now, his body against Chad’s in a way that made standing difficult. Chad could feel him through his khakis. Could feel his own body answering.

The elevator dinged.

They broke apart, both adjusting as the doors opened onto an empty hallway.

Hank led him to 4C. Fumbled the key. Got it on the second try.

“Hey Google, den lights on, please.”

The lights came up. Couch, coffee table, desk with a laptop. Bookshelves along one wall—hardcovers, policy reports, a worn Invisible Man, Langston Hughes. Everything neat. Everything impersonal.

No photos. No art on the walls.

First Kiss is going to look good in here.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The formality was back, cranked up. “Water? Bourbon? I have some wine, I think, though I’m not sure how old it is.”

“Water’s good. Splash of bourbon.”

Hank disappeared into the kitchen. Clink of glasses, running water, cabinet. Chad stood in the middle of the room and listened to the sounds of a man trying to compose himself by handling glassware.