Chapter 3
Hank arrived at the Foggy Bottom address Chad had texted him—a modest brick building on H Street—at exactly six-thirty. He’d been ready since five forty-five, pacing his apartment, checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror every ten minutes like a teenager preparing for prom.
He’d changed clothes three times. The first outfit—khakis and a light blue Oxford—looked too senatorial. The second—jeans and a polo—looked like he was headed to a golf course. He’d finally settled on dark jeans and a black button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Still him, but less… rigid.
The baseball cap from Tuesday night remained in his car. Chad’s assessment had stung a little, probably because it was accurate. He wasn’t trying to look straight, though. He was trying to be invisible.
Tonight, he wanted to be seen. At least by Chad.
He checked his reflection one more time in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through his hair—God, when had it gotten so gray at the temples?—and got out of the car.
The building had a simple intercom system. He found 2B and pressed the button.
A crackling voice came through, too distorted to identify. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Hank. I’m here for Chad.”
The door buzzed. Hank pulled it open and climbed two flights of stairs, his heart rate climbing with each step. Not from exertion, but from anticipation.
You’re forty years old. Get it together.
But his hands were sweating when he knocked on apartment 2B.
The door swung open to reveal a shirtless man with warm brown skin and dark eyes that were currently appraising Hank with undisguised interest. His dark hair was styled in an elaborate pompadour, and his smile suggested he was in on a joke Hank hadn’t heard yet.
Not Chad.
“You must be Hank.” The young man leaned against the doorframe, making no move to step aside. “Come on in. I’m Ricky.”
Hank reflexively extended his hand, suddenly hyperaware of every feature of his own face—the face that occasionally got recognized in airports, in restaurants, by Georgia constituents visiting DC.
Relax. This is Chad’s roommate, not a reporter.
“Yes. Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The words came out more formal than he’d intended, his nerves betraying him.
Ricky’s grip was firm, his smile widening as he finally stepped back to let Hank inside. “Chad said you were adorable. He undersold it.”
Heat flooded Hank’s face. He was blushing like a schoolboy, and he knew it, which only made it worse.
The apartment was small but tidy—a living room with a worn couch and a television, a galley kitchen visible beyond, two doors that presumably led to bedrooms. Posters on the walls, a bookshelf crammed with textbooks, and what looked like art supplies.
It smelled like coffee and something cooking—garlic, maybe, and cumin.
He’s twenty-three and in school. Of course, he has a roommate.
Hank’s mind performed a dizzying time jump—twenty years backward to his own college apartment in Athens.
The perpetually overflowing trash can, the couch they’d found on the curb.
Late nights studying, early mornings nursing hangovers.
He’d shared that space with three other guys, none of whom he’d kept in touch with after graduation—after Hank had carefully and deliberately constructed a life that kept him at a safe distance from certain feelings.
“Chad!” Ricky called toward the hallway. “Your beef is here!”
A muffled voice came back: “Two minutes!”
Ricky turned back to Hank, arms crossed over his bare chest. “He’s been getting ready for an hour. You’d think he was meeting the Pope.”
“I hope I’m not that intimidating.”
“Honey, you’re exactly that intimidating.” Ricky’s gaze traveled slowly from Hank’s face down to his shoes and back up. “Look at you. All tall and handsome and pressed. Like someone ironed you before you left the house.”
Hank glanced down at his button-down, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that bad?”
“It’s delicious. You’re like beef and broccoli—nutritious and satisfying.” Ricky’s grin turned wicked. “No wonder Chad broke his rule for you.”
Before Hank could formulate a response, Chad emerged from a hallway on the left, pulling a fitted gray t-shirt over his head.
For a brief, glorious moment, Hank caught a glimpse of smooth skin, the lean muscles of his abdomen, the tribal tattoo curving over his left shoulder, and the trail of light hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Then the shirt was down, and Chad was grinning at him, hair slightly damp, smelling like soap and something citrus.
“Ricky, stop traumatizing my date.”
“I’m being hospitable.” Ricky pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I offered him a beverage.”
“You did not.”
“I was about to.”
Chad rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys from a hook by the door. “Ignore everything he said. He’s constitutionally incapable of normal human interaction.”
“That’s not true.” Ricky’s voice dropped slightly as he looked at Hank again. “I’m very capable when it matters.”
The playfulness drained from his face—less theatrical, more assessing. The message was clear: Don’t mess this up.
“I’ll take good care of him,” Hank said quietly.
Ricky studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good. Because if you don’t, I know people.”
“He doesn’t know people,” Chad said, pulling Hank toward the door.
“I know some people.”
“You know your mother and your priest.”
“Both of whom are terrifying.” Ricky waved them off. “Go. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of options,” Chad muttered, and Hank caught the flash of Ricky’s delighted grin before the door closed behind them.
“You dressed down a little,” Chad said as Hank opened the car door for him—passenger side. “I like it.”
“Per your observation, I felt it was necessary.” Hank closed the door and circled around to the driver’s side.
When he slid behind the wheel, Chad was studying him with an expression that made Hank’s pulse quicken.
“And look at all that gorgeous hair you were hiding from me with that cap.” Chad reached over and ran his fingers through the hair at Hank’s temple. “Most people use caps to hide a lack of hair.”
“I’ve never had that problem.” The touch was casual, unhesitating, and it made Hank’s breath catch.
“You should show it off more. The gray is sexy.”
Hank started the car, letting the engine warm up. “Where am I going?”
“Head toward campus. The Corcoran. Just a few blocks—you can take 23rd Street.”
As Hank navigated the familiar streets, he was acutely aware of Chad’s presence beside him. The way Chad shifted in his seat, crossing one ankle over the other. The way his fingers tapped lightly on his thigh.
Every neuron in Hank’s body was firing at once, all of them screaming the same thing: Reach over. Touch him. Take his hand.
His hands stayed locked on the steering wheel at ten and two.
Because they were in public. In a car with windows. Driving through Foggy Bottom on a Thursday evening when the streets were busy with commuters and students who might glance into a passing vehicle and see—
See what? Two men sitting in a car?
But it wasn’t just two men. It was Senator Henry Fortner and a twenty-three-year-old art student he’d met three days ago. It was everything he’d spent forty years hiding, sitting in the passenger seat smelling like citrus and looking at him like he was something worth wanting.
“You okay?” Chad asked. “You’re gripping the wheel pretty tight.”
Hank forced his fingers to relax. “I’m adjusting. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Dating?”
“Any of it.”
Chad was quiet for a moment. Then: “We can go slow.”
“I don’t want slow.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat. “I mean—I want this. I’m just not very good at it.”
“You’re doing fine.” Chad’s voice was warm. “Better than fine.”
They pulled up to a modern glass building, and Hank found a parking spot on the street. As he fed quarters into the meter, Chad stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
“Thank you for doing this,” Chad said when Hank joined him. “I know it’s probably not your usual first date.”
“I don’t have a usual first date. This is only my second.”
Chad’s eyebrows rose. “Second? Ever?”
“Shelby, my ex-wife, was my first. You’re my second.” Hank turned to face him. “So if I’m doing this wrong, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m working without a manual.”
“You’re not doing it wrong.” Chad stepped closer—close enough that Hank could smell that citrus scent again. “You’re doing it exactly right.”
Chad used a keycode to enter the building—five digits, punched in with casual familiarity. The door clicked open, and they stepped into a lobby with polished floors and abstract sculptures positioned along the walls.
A security guard sat behind a desk, middle-aged and bored-looking, his attention focused on his phone.
“Evening,” Chad said.
The guard glanced up, gave Chad a nod of recognition, then looked at Hank. “Need to sign in. ID, please.”
Hank’s heart rate spiked. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, extracted his driver’s license, and handed it over.
This is it. This is where he recognizes you. Mentions seeing you on C-SPAN.
The guard copied Hank’s information into a logbook—name, license number, time—gave the ID a cursory glance, and handed it back.
“Thanks. You guys have a good evening.”
Thank God for the apathy of the underpaid.
They headed down a wide corridor lined with photographs and sketches. The hallway smelled like paint and industrial cleaner, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
As they turned a corner, Chad reached out, his fingers brushing against Hank’s hand.
It was such a small gesture—tentative, testing—but Hank felt it like an electric shock. He looked down at their hands, then at Chad, whose expression was carefully neutral.
Hank laced their fingers together.
Chad’s hand was smaller than his, warmer. His grip tightened slightly, and something in Hank’s chest loosened—some knot he’d been carrying so long he’d forgotten it was there.
“Okay?” Chad asked softly.