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But he let it happen anyway. Miss you. Two words. More than Chad had given him in three days.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

CHAPTER 13

Hank’s phone had become an instrument of torture.

He checked it compulsively—in the elevator, at his desk, during a subcommittee hearing on agricultural subsidies that he couldn’t have summarized if his life depended on it. Every vibration sent his heart lurching, and every time it wasn’t Chad, the disappointment carved a little deeper.

Five days. Five days of calls that went to voicemail, texts that showed as delivered but never read, a silence so complete it felt like erasure.

The morning routine continued. Google Home played Chopin. NPR murmured about trade negotiations. Coffee dripped into the pot. But the hope that had colored these rituals just weeks ago was gone. He moved through the motions without feeling them.

He kept seeing Chad’s face when the photograph loaded on his phone. That whispered Oh God. The way the warmth drained out of the room in an instant. They’d been tangled together on the couch, the concert still humming in his blood, and then⁠—

Nothing. Chad had left the next morning, and Hank hadn’t heard from him since.

The walk to work felt different now. Hank still took his usual route—past the coffee shop on the corner, across the park, up Constitution Avenue—but he moved through it like a ghost. The October air had turned crisp, leaves scattering across the sidewalks in shades of amber and rust. He barely noticed.

He passed Clyde’s usual spot near the Hart Building. The older man was there, huddled in his army jacket, a cardboard cup of coffee steaming in his hands.

“Morning, Mr. Senator.”

Hank managed a smile. “How are you holding up, Clyde?”

“Can’t complain. That meeting you set up with Mr. Bathum—went real well. He says there might be something with the Park Service. Custodial work on the Mall.” Clyde’s eyes brightened. “Interview’s next week.”

“That’s wonderful news.” And it was—a genuine bright spot in a week that had felt relentlessly dark. “You’ll do great.”

“I appreciate you believing in me, sir.” Clyde paused, studying Hank’s face. “You doing okay? You look like you’re carrying something heavy.”

“Just a busy week,” Hank said. “I’m fine.”

Clyde nodded slowly, unconvinced but too polite to push. “Well. You take care of yourself, Mr. Senator.”

Hank pressed a ten-dollar bill into his hand and continued toward the Hart Building.

By Wednesday, the news cycle had found fresher targets, but Capitol Hill had a longer memory. The photograph wasn’t trending anymore. It didn’t have to be. It lived in the sidelong glances, the conversations that stopped when he entered a room, the colleagues who suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes.

This should have been a relief. Instead, it just meant people had stopped talking about it publicly.

Cathy was at her desk when Hank arrived, fingers flying over her keyboard. She glanced up as he passed.

“Senator Holloway called. Twice. She says it’s about lunch, but her tone suggests otherwise.”

“It always does.”

Hank retreated into his office and closed the door. The room felt too quiet. He sank into his chair and stared at the phone that refused to bring him the one message he wanted.

He’d drafted a dozen texts to Chad over the past few days, deleting many before sending. I’m not angry. I just want to talk. Too desperate. Please let me know you’re okay. Too needy. I love you. Too much.

In the end, he’d settled for simple: I miss you. Call me when you’re ready.

Chad hadn’t called.

A knock at the door.

“Senator—” Cathy’s voice was careful. “I brought you the Post. There’s a follow-up piece. Page three.”