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He told himself it was for Hank’s own good. The last thing Hank needed was to be seen with him again, to have any further connection to the “mystery man” the tabloids were trying to identify. Chad’s face was in the photograph, but it was slightly turned, and slightly blurred. If he stayed away, maybe they wouldn’t figure out who he was. Maybe Hank could spin some story, deny the relationship, salvage something from the wreckage.

It was a lie, and Chad knew it. The real reason he didn’t call was simpler and worse: he couldn’t bear to hear Hank’s voice and find disappointment in it. The careful politeness of a man figuring out how to end something without causing more damage.

Better to end it himself. Better to disappear before Hank had to ask him to.

Your picker, Chad.

He went to class on Monday, sat through Art History in a daze, and left before anyone could talk to him. He skipped studio time and went home, telling himself he’d paint later, knowing he wouldn’t. Ricky had a shift at David’s, so the apartment was empty. Chad lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way Hank’s hand had felt in his, warm and solid and sure.

His phone buzzed. Another text from Hank: Please call me. I’m worried about you.

Chad read it three times, then set the phone face down on the coffee table.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

By Tuesday, the media had moved on to other scandals—a congressman caught in some financial impropriety, a celebrity divorce, the usual churn. The photograph was still out there, still circulating in certain corners of the internet, but it was no longer front-page news.

Chad should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt hollow.

He’d called in sick to BJ’s on Monday, claiming a stomach bug. Tim had been skeptical but hadn’t pushed. Tonight was Tuesday Tunes, and the thought of pouring drinks while a room full of men belted Everything’s Coming Up Roses made him want to crawl under his bed and stay there.

He texted Tim: Still not feeling great. Can someone cover tonight?

The response came quickly: Blake already volunteered. Take the time you need.

That simple message—no questions, no pressure—made Chad’s eyes sting. Blake, who six weeks ago could barely make it through a shift without dropping something, had stepped up without being asked.

Thanks, Chad typed back. Tell him I owe him one.

He says you’re even. Whatever that means.

Chad set the phone down and looked around the apartment. The walls felt like they were closing in. He needed to get out, needed to do something with his hands, needed to stop thinking for five minutes.

The studio. It would be empty this time of night—most students had evening classes or part-time jobs, and the building was usually deserted after seven. He could lose himself in paint and canvas and forget, for a while, that he’d ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out into the rain.

The Corcoran building was quiet when Chad arrived, the hallways dim and echoing. He swiped his student ID at the studio door and let himself in, flipping on the overhead lights. The familiar smell hit him—turpentine, linseed oil, the dusty sweetness of dried paint—and the knot behind his sternum loosened a fraction.

This was his place. Whatever else was falling apart, he still had this.

He set up his easel near the window, where the light was best during the day, though now there were only the fluorescents and the darkness outside. He’d meant to work on the piece he’d started last week—an abstract landscape, muted greens and golds—but when he picked up his brush, his hand moved in a different direction.

Dark colors. Prussian blue, alizarin crimson, burnt umber. He mixed them on his palette without thinking, letting instinct guide him. The first strokes were angry—harsh slashes that felt like screaming. But as he worked, something shifted. The anger gave way to something else. Sadder.

A figure began to emerge from the darkness. Broad shoulders. A face half-hidden in shadow. He didn’t plan it—his hand just moved, and there it was. Someone caught between worlds.

Chad painted for hours. He lost track of time, lost track of everything except the canvas, the colors, and the image taking shape under his hands. The figure was emerging from darkness into light—one side of the face illuminated, the other still obscured.

His phone lit up on the table beside him. Hank’s number.

Chad watched it ring. His thumb hovered over the screen—accept, one tap, that’s all it would take—and he could hear Hank’s voice, could explain, could⁠—

The call went to voicemail.

Chad set the phone face down and picked up his brush.

“That’s extraordinary.”