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“For talking to me. For making me feel—” He paused, searching. “I was terrified walking in here. I circled the block three times.”

“You don’t seem terrified now.”

“No.” A pause. “That’s because of you.”

The moment stretched between them, the bar noise fading to a hum. Chad was suddenly very aware of the six inches of scarred wood between Hank’s hands and his own.

Then someone three seats down started waving a twenty, and Chad had to pull away.

The show wound down just before midnight with Being Alive from Company—a song about needing someone to hold you too close, to hurt you too deep, to know you too well.

Chad watched Hank mouth along to words he clearly didn’t know, trying anyway, getting the consonants wrong but the feeling right.

Stop noticing things about him. Stop cataloging.

When the song ended, the lights brightened, and half the crowd dispersed into the night. The remaining bodies shifted toward the small dance floor as the DJ transitioned to ‘90s remixes. The energy changed—looser, slower, the last-call crowd settling in.

Chad started closing duties—wiping down the bar, restocking the beer cooler, loading the glass washer. Blake was breaking down the wait station with grim focus.

Hank hadn’t moved. Same stool. Same bourbon, though he’d barely touched it in the last hour.

Chad walked down to him, tossing the bar rag over his shoulder. “We’re closing soon.”

“I know.” The nervous look was back. “I just—I wanted to ask if—I was wondering whether you might—” He stopped. Started over, each word placed with the careful deliberation of a man stacking stones. “Would you like to go out sometime? On a real—on a date. A proper one.”

Say no. You promised yourself. No men.

“I don’t usually date customers,” Chad heard himself say.

Only hitmen and co-workers.

Hank’s face fell. Not dramatically—he was too polite for that—but the light behind his eyes dimmed, and he nodded quickly, already reaching for his wallet. “Of course. I completely understand. I apologize if⁠—”

“But,” Chad said.

Hank froze mid-reach.

“I’m off on Thursday. If you want to pick me up around six-thirty?”

The smile that broke across Hank’s face could have lit the whole Dupont Circle grid. “Really?”

“Really.” Chad grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled his address and phone number. “Foggy Bottom. You know it?”

“I’ll find it.” Hank took the napkin with both hands, like it was something precious, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Six-thirty. Thursday.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. I’m very punctual. It’s—people say it’s annoying, actually.”

Chad laughed. “I’ll risk it.”

They looked at each other, and the bar was closing, and Blake was clanking glasses, and the DJ was playing Mariah Carey, and none of it mattered because Hank was looking at him like he was the only real thing in the room.

You’re going to regret this.

“You should probably go,” Chad said, “before I do something unprofessional.”

“Like what?”