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Before he could respond, Blake’s voice cut through: “Dude, Chad. You need to see this.”

Blake was already crossing to him, phone thrust forward. “Isn’t this your boyfriend? The senator guy?”

Chad’s stomach dropped before his brain caught up. He knew, somehow, before he saw it—the way you know a car crash is coming in the frozen moment before impact.

But it wasn’t a car crash.

On the small screen, Hank was throwing a punch.

The image hit first, before context, before explanation—Hank’s arm snapping forward, the crack of connection, something white and expensive spinning through the air. Then the rest of it caught up: the marble hallway, the suit, the other man crumpling against the wall like a marionette with cut strings. His Hank. On camera. In the United States Capitol.

“Holy shit,” Chad breathed.

“Right? It’s everywhere. Trending on everything, CNN’s running it on loop.” Blake’s eyes were wide. “They’re saying the other guy said something about you. Something bad. And your boyfriend just—” He smacked his palm with his fist.

Chad watched the video again. And again. Hank’s face was set in an expression he’d never seen before—not the gentle warmth Chad knew, not the careful neutrality of a politician, but something raw and furious and absolutely certain.

He did that for me.

The thought landed before he could deflect it. Nine days of silence, nine days of convincing himself he was doing the right thing by staying away, and Hank had been out there throwing away everything—reputation, career, possibly his freedom—because someone said something bad about a bartender from Dupont Circle.

Breathe, Chad.

“Are you okay?” Blake was watching him. “You look kind of⁠—”

“I’m fine. I just—” Chad handed the phone back. “I need a minute.”

He retreated to the back room, leaned against the row of lockers, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. His heart was hammering. His mind was worse.

You disappeared. You left him alone to deal with all of it, and he⁠—

Hank had punched a United States senator. On camera. In the Capitol hallway. For him.

For you, you idiot. While you were hiding.

Chad pulled out his phone, fingers unsteady, and navigated to his messages. Seventeen unread texts from Hank, spanning the days since the photograph. He read them in order.

I understand if you need space. Just let me know you’re okay.

I’m not angry. I could never be angry at you.

Please, Chad. One word. Anything.

I miss you. Call me when you’re ready.

The last one was three days ago. After that, nothing. Hank had stopped trying.

And then, today, he’d thrown a punch that was currently being watched by several million people.

Chad locked his phone, pressed it against his forehead, and stood there until his breathing leveled out.

When he came back, the bar had transformed.

It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing. The customers who’d been nursing their drinks were on their feet, clustered around the mounted televisions. Blake was behind the bar with Tim’s laptop open, cables snaking under the counter. And on every screen in BJ’s—the main TV, the corner monitors, even the digital sign that usually displayed drink specials—the same video was playing.

Not the raw footage. Something else entirely.

Someone with real talent and too much time had gotten hold of the Capitol hallway footage and turned it into something that shouldn’t have worked, but did—spectacularly. The opening bars of Christina Aguilera’s Fighter kicked in, the driving beat synced to Hank’s windup—and then the punch landed on the downbeat, the teeth arced on the offbeat, and the body crumpled in slow motion while the bass dropped. Cut to a reaction clip: a woman in a church pew, hands raised, eyes rolled back. Cut back—the punch again from a different angle, tighter, the jaw distorting on impact. Cut to a little girl at a beauty pageant, mouth falling open in a perfect O. Cut to Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping—the man springing back up from the floor like a broken jack-in-the-box, only to get flattened again. And again. And again. Down-up-down-up, each iteration spliced with another reaction: a news anchor losing composure on live television, a row of drag queens clutching their pearls in practiced horror, an elderly Black woman in a massive hat fanning herself and mouthing Lord Jesus. A stadium crowd doing the wave. A cat falling off a table. Three seconds of a Korean game show where everyone screams at once. Back to the punch. Back to the teeth, spinning through the air in gorgeous slow motion while somewhere a gospel choir hit a chord of angelic perfection.