Page 70 of Keep

The words hung between them. Chad set his glass on the coffee table and shifted closer, close enough that their shoulders touched.

“I keep waiting for the catch,” Chad said quietly. “The thing that’s wrong with you.”

“My snoring?”

“I’ve heard your snoring. I can live with it.” Chad wasn’t smiling. “I mean the real thing. The dealbreaker. Because every guy I’ve ever been with—there’s always been something, some reason it couldn’t work.”

“And you think I’m hiding something?”

“I think you’re too good to be true.” He stopped, swallowed. “I think you’re the kind of person who’s going to change things. Not just for me. For a lot of people. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Hank set his glass down and turned to face him. “Chad. Look at me.”

Chad looked.

“I’m not too good to be true. I’m a man who spent most of his life hiding from himself. I married my best friend because I was too scared to admit what I wanted. I’ve made more mistakes than I can count, and I’ll probably make more.” He reached out and cupped Chad’s face in his hand. “But I’m here. With you. And that’s not an accident. I chose this. I chose you.”

Chad’s breath caught. “Hank⁠—”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The rain tapped against the windows. The bourbon sat forgotten on the coffee table.

Then Chad leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, tasting of whiskey and something sweeter underneath.

They stayed on the couch, tangled together, talking about nothing and everything. Chad’s head on Hank’s shoulder, Hank’s fingers tracing idle patterns on Chad’s arm.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Chad said.

“I collect vinyl records. Only classical. I have about two hundred.”

“That’s adorable and predictable. Something else.”

“Besides eggs, I can’t cook anything that doesn’t come from a box.”

“Noted. I’ll handle the cooking.”

“You’re assuming you’ll be around to cook.”

Chad lifted his head and looked at him. “Aren’t I?”

Hank’s heart fluttered. “I hope so.”

“Then I’ll handle the cooking.” Chad settled back against his shoulder. “Your turn. Ask me something.”

“What do you want? If you could have anything.”

Chad was quiet for a moment. “I want to paint something that matters. Something that makes people feel the way I felt tonight, listening to that music.” He paused. “And I want someone to come home to. Someone who gets it. Who gets me.”

“That’s not too much to ask.”

“It’s felt like too much. For a long time.”

Hank tightened his arm around him. “It’s not.”

They sat in the quiet, the city muffled outside, the rain a gentle static against the glass. Hank let himself feel it—the warmth, the rightness, the sense that something had finally clicked into place.

This is it. Tell him.