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“Thank you,” Chad said, mouth half full. “You don’t have to do this every time.”

“I like doing it.”

“You like feeding strays.”

“I like feeding you. There’s a difference.”

Chad glanced up. The bartender’s read—quick, assessing. Whatever he saw, he didn’t comment on it. He just went back to his eggs.

They sat on the couch afterward. The apartment was quiet—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of the city. First Kiss was barely visible in the dim light from the kitchen, just the suggestion of blue against the wall.

“I had breakfast with Roy Bathum yesterday,” Hank said. “The colleague I mentioned. The one building the jobs program.”

“The homeless rehab thing.”

“It’s real, Chad. Park Service is on board. They’re placing people—anyone willing to work, willing to stay clean. Even people with histories. Substance issues.” He kept his voice even. Factual. “Roy gave me a few of his cards. In case I came across anyone who might benefit. I gave one to my friend, Clyde, today. I told you about him. The guy at CVS who always says, Can’t complain.”

Chad had gone still beside him. Not tense—just still.

A long moment passed. Then, quietly, he said, “Mac?”

“Only if you think he’s ready. Only if you want to.”

“I don’t even know where he is.”

“But if you see him again.”

Chad stared at the coffee table. Hank waited. He’d learned that about Chad—you didn’t fill his silences. You let them run and eventually he’d come back with something, even if it was only a sentence.

“Yeah,” Chad said. “Okay.”

Hank reached into his jacket on the chair and pulled out the card.

Chad took it. Looked at it.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“I know.”

His thumb grazed the raised lettering on the card.

“No pressure,” Hank said. “Just an option.”

The corner of Chad’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

He found his wallet in his bag by the door and placed the card inside. Then he returned to the couch where Hank held him for a while without talking—the painting on the wall, the city outside, and the space between them warm and undemanding.

Saturday afternoon. Hank’s apartment. Rain against the windows—the first real rain of autumn, steady and gray.

They were on the couch. Chad was reading something for class—a monograph on color theory that he held at arm’s length as though the book had personally offended him. Hank was pretending to review briefing materials and actually watching Chad read.

He’d been rehearsing.

Not obviously—he wasn’t the kind of man who practiced in mirrors—but for the past two days, he’d been assembling sentences in his head, rearranging them, discarding them, starting over. He’d made notes on a legal pad, which he’d then thrown away because making notes about asking someone on a date was, even by his standards, excessive.

“You’re staring,” Chad said, not looking up.

“I’m not staring.”