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“I’m still thinking about a milkshake,” Hank said.

Chad patted his stomach. “I don’t know. I’m pretty full.”

“Why don’t y’all split one?” Marsha suggested. “We have some great boozy shakes.”

Hank’s face brightened—almost boyish, gone before he could catch himself being delighted. “What do you recommend?”

“If it were me, I’d do either the White Russian or the Millionaire Malt—the malt is Glenlivet 18.”

Hank winced. “I can’t do scotch in a milkshake. We’ll split a White Russian, though.” He looked at Chad. “Sound good?”

“Definitely.”

The milkshake arrived in a tall, frosty glass with two straws, whipped cream piled high and drizzled with chocolate syrup.

Chad didn’t wait. He leaned forward, bending over the table, and wrapped his lips around one straw.

Hank mirrored him. Their heads nearly touching.

The drink was sweet and strong—vodka and Kahlúa blending with vanilla ice cream in a way that tasted like dessert and felt like trouble. Chad could feel the alcohol immediately, warmth loosening the knot that had been sitting in his chest since Hank said virgin.

They didn’t talk. Just drank and looked at each other and breathed the same air.

The restaurant noise pulled back. The other diners, the servers, the traffic—all of it receding until there was nothing but Hank’s dark eyes over the rim of the glass, Hank’s knee bumping his under the table, the slow sip and the silence.

Chad set his straw aside and reached out, lacing their fingers together on top of the table. In public. Where anyone could see.

Hank’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.

Minutes passed. The shake dwindled. The booth felt smaller now, the low light warm between them.

“You’ve got a lot of thoughts buzzing around up there.” Hank reached out with his free hand and touched Chad’s temple with one fingertip. “I can tell by the way your eyes are moving.”

Chad looked up from the empty glass. “I’m a little woozy,” he admitted. “I like you, Hank.”

“I like you too.”

“But I’m scared.”

Hank’s thumb stroked across his knuckles. “Me too.”

“I don’t want to get hurt.” Smaller than he had intended. Smaller than he’d allow, sober. “Promise me you’ll never hurt me.”

Reel it in, Chad.

But the vodka and the gold light and Hank’s thumb on his knuckles made it impossible.

Hank didn’t flinch. “I promise.” He squeezed Chad’s hand. “Promise me there’s more than just tonight.”

“I can do that.”

“So, what now?”

Fear giving way to want. Caution dissolving. He’d sworn off men after Jonathan—sworn he’d keep his distance, not fall for anyone until he was sure.

But Hank wasn’t Mac or Jonathan. Hank held doors and asked permission, and looked at Chad’s art like it mattered.

Or he’s more dangerous. Because you’ll want to fix him, and when it falls apart⁠—