Chapter 3 #2
“Yes.” Hank squeezed his hand. “Very okay.”
They turned into a vast, high-ceilinged room. Track lighting illuminated paintings on white walls, and sculptures were positioned throughout the center of the space like pieces in a chess game.
“Welcome to my world,” Chad said.
Only one other couple was present—a man and woman studying a landscape near the far wall, speaking in hushed tones. Otherwise, they were alone.
Hank looked around, trying to take it all in. Classical portraiture hung next to stark realism. Vibrant abstracts competed with black-and-white photography. The variety was overwhelming.
His eyes landed on a sculpture in the center of the space—a man and woman carved from what looked like marble, locked in an embrace on a rocky precipice. Their bodies curved together, the woman’s head tucked beneath the man’s chin, his arms wrapped around her like he was sheltering her.
“She’s great,” Chad said, following his gaze. “Abbie. She’s in my studio class.”
“It’s beautiful.” Hank stepped closer, still holding Chad’s hand. “The way they’re holding onto each other. Like they’re the only solid thing in a storm.”
Chad looked at him with something like surprise. “That’s… yeah. That’s exactly it.”
“Was that right?” Hank felt suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know the proper terminology.”
“There’s no proper terminology for how art makes you feel.” Chad’s voice was soft. “You either feel it or you don’t. You feel it.”
They moved deeper into the gallery. Chad pointed out various pieces—talking about technique, composition, the artists’ intentions—and Hank listened, contributing where he could, mostly content to watch Chad in his element.
He loved watching Chad talk about art. The way his hands moved, the way his eyes lit up, the way he’d lean in close to examine some detail Hank would never have noticed.
This is who he is. Not the bartender persona. This.
They stopped in front of a hyperrealistic still life—a bowl of fruit rendered in such meticulous detail that it could have been a photograph.
“That’s my instructor,” Chad said. “Martin Abrams.”
Hank studied the painting, then noticed the date beneath the signature. “It’s twenty years old.”
“Exactly.” Chad’s voice warmed with admiration. “He’s been using the same subject every year since he painted this. Yesterday we painted the exact same bowl, same fruit, same lighting. It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That there’s always more to learn. That you can look at the same thing a hundred times and still find something new.” Chad glanced at him. “He’s brilliant. I learn something from him every day.”
“Should I be jealous?”
Chad turned to find Hank’s expression caught somewhere between teasing and uncertain.
“He’s like a father to me,” Chad said. “So no. Definitely not.”
“Good.” Hank meant it more than the light tone suggested.
They continued through the gallery, the other couple eventually drifting away until they had the space entirely to themselves. The silence felt comfortable, intimate—broken only by their footsteps and Chad’s occasional observations.
They approached a large canvas near the end of the gallery—roughly five feet tall and three feet wide. At first glance, it looked abstract, all geometric shapes in shades of blue and burgundy with strategic splashes of black and white.
But the longer Hank stared, the more the image resolved itself.
Two figures. Men. Kissing.
The style was almost cubist—faces rendered in circles and crescents, shoulders as triangles tapering down to angular forms. But despite the contemporary approach, the painting radiated something raw and urgent. A stroke of crimson cut through where the figures met, like heat made visible.
The larger figure was protective. Possessive. Consuming.
The smaller figure was yielding. Trusting. Surrendering.
Hank felt his throat tighten. He stepped closer, studying the brushstrokes—some thick and textured, others almost translucent. The blues ranged from deep navy to pale cerulean. The burgundy added warmth, passion.
His eyes dropped to the lower corner where a single word was scrawled in confident script: Chad.
And beneath it, smaller: First Kiss.
“This is yours.” His voice came out rough.
“It is. Barely dry… but Martin insisted it be in the gallery.”
“It’s—” Hank struggled for words. Every adjective felt inadequate. “I don’t know how to describe it. It makes me feel something. Something I can’t quite name.”
“That’s the best review I’ve ever gotten.”
Hank turned to look at him. “Is it for sale?”
“I’ve never sold anything.”
“I would buy this. I’m serious.”
Chad was quiet for a moment. Then: “You can have it.”
“Chad—”
“I want you to have it.” Something flickered across Chad’s face—vulnerability, quickly masked. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The words landed with weight—a gift and a warning wrapped together.
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
Chad held his gaze, searching for something. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, because his expression softened.
“We’re friends, Hank. Right?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” Chad moved closer, close enough that Hank could count the faint freckles across his nose. “It always starts that way.”
In the upper corner of the room, a small security camera blinked red.
Hank noticed it. His pulse spiked briefly. He thought about everything that camera might capture—their hand-holding, their proximity, whatever was about to happen next.
Let them see.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
Chad slid his arms around Hank’s waist, and Hank’s body responded before his brain could catch up, bowing down to meet him.
The kiss was different from Tuesday night—longer, slower, more deliberate. Tuesday had been impulse, bourbon-fueled, and breathless. This was a choice. Chad’s lips were warm and tasted faintly of mint, and his hands spread across Hank’s back, pulling him closer.
Hank’s hands found Chad’s hips. He was holding too tight—he knew he was holding too tight—but he couldn’t make himself ease up.
When they separated, Hank’s knees were unsteady.
“You’re amazing,” he breathed.
Chad laughed—soft, delighted. “I’m really not. But I’m glad you think so.”
“I do. I think so very much.”
“Very much.” Chad’s smile widened. “So formal. Even when you’re complimenting someone.”
“I’m sorry. I can try to be more—”
“Don’t.” Chad pressed a finger to Hank’s lips. “Don’t change anything. I like you exactly like this.”
They walked back to the car as the September evening settled around them, the sky fading from orange to deep violet. Street lamps flickered on, and the sidewalks were still busy with students and young professionals.
Hank studied Chad’s profile as they walked—the straight line of his nose, the way his hair caught the last of the light.
First Kiss.
He wondered if Chad realized how perfectly that title captured what was happening between them. Not a literal first kiss—they’d done that Tuesday, over the bar. But the first time Hank had let himself be truly seen. The first time he’d wanted something this badly without shame.
When they reached the car, Hank unlocked it and opened the passenger door.
Chad paused. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Opening doors for me.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” Chad’s voice went soft. “No one’s ever done that before.”
Hank thought about all the ways Chad may have been hurt by men who should have treated him better.
“Then they were fools,” Hank said quietly.
Chad held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing across his face. Then he got into the car.
Hank closed the door and circled to the driver’s side, catching his reflection in the windshield. He looked happy. His face was flushed, his hair was mussed, and he was smiling like he’d forgotten how to stop.
He got in and started the car.
“So,” Chad said. “Where are we eating?”
“Place called Ted’s Bulletin. Near the Capitol. Have you been?”
“No. I’ve heard it’s good, though.”
“Upscale diner food. Good milkshakes.” Hank pulled out into traffic. “A friend suggested it.”
“A co-worker you told about me?”
“I had to tell someone. I was bursting.”
Chad laughed. “What did you say?”
“That I met someone. That he’s an art student. That he’s—” Hank hesitated, then decided to say it anyway. “That he’s beautiful and talented and makes me feel things I’d given up on ever feeling.”
Chad was quiet for a moment. Then his hand found Hank’s thigh, warm and steady.
“That’s really sweet, Hank.”
“It’s the truth.”
They drove through the evening streets, the monuments lighting up against the darkening sky. Chad’s hand stayed on Hank’s thigh, his thumb moving in absent circles that made it difficult to concentrate on the road.
“I need to tell you something,” Hank said as they approached the restaurant. “About my work.”
“Okay.”
“It’s—I should have told you before. I meant to, but then you kissed me, and then there was tonight, and I kept finding reasons to put it off—”
“Hank.” Chad’s voice was patient. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it over dinner. Okay? Let’s eat, have a good time, and you can tell me whatever you need to tell me.”
Hank pulled into a parking spot and turned off the engine. Through the restaurant windows, he could see diners laughing, talking, living their uncomplicated lives.
“It might change things,” he said. “When you know.”
Chad’s hand squeezed his thigh. “Then it changes things. But I’m not going anywhere until I hear it.”
Hank looked at him—at those blue eyes, steady and open—and felt something give way in his chest. Not breaking, but closer to thawing.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s eat.”
They got out of the car and walked toward the restaurant, shoulders brushing. The First Kiss canvas was still in the gallery, but Hank already knew where it would hang in his apartment. On the wall across from his couch, where he’d be sure to see it every day.
Don’t make me regret it.