Page 89 of Keep

“Someone set it to music.”

Despite everything—the hand, the ethics inquiry, the nine days—Hank started to laugh. It wasn’t graceful. It shook loose things that had been stuck for days. Chad was laughing too, or crying, and they were holding onto each other, the whole absurd situation breaking over them.

“I can’t believe you punched someone for me,” Chad managed.

“I can’t believe there’s a remix.”

“Welcome to the internet.”

Chad wiped his eyes. “Your career⁠—”

“Will survive or it won’t.” Hank heard the words and realized he meant them. “Whatever happens, I’m done hiding.”

“So what happens now?”

Hank looked at him, eyes still wet. “We stop pretending,” he said. “No more rules. No more forty-eight days.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Chad smiled. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Hank reached for Chad’s hand—with his left one, the one that worked—and laced their fingers together. “Then that’s what we do.”

They sat like that for a while. Hank’s hand throbbed, and his career was likely in tatters. But Chad was here.

“I should let you sleep,” Chad said eventually.

“Stay.”

Chad looked at him.

“Not on the couch.” Heat rose to Hank’s face. “I mean—there is a couch. If you want the couch. But I have a bed, and you could—” he stopped. “I’ve spent nine nights alone. I don’t want another one.”

“You’re not great at playing it cool.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s kind of adorable.”

“I’ll take adorable.” Hank stood, still holding Chad’s hand. “Come to bed.”

They undressed in the dark, the only light coming from the street below.

Hank fumbled with his buttons one-handed until Chad brushed his hands away and did it for him. Shirt, undershirt, belt. Then they were standing in the bedroom, looking at each other.

“Your hand,” Chad said.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s purple.”

“It’s fine.”

“It looks like a catcher’s mitt.”

“I don’t want to talk about my hand.”