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“A—yes. This kind of bar.”

His voice was deep, with the faintest lilt of the South—not the harsh bark of the Southern politicians Chad had served over the years, but softer. Warm underneath. Georgia, maybe. Alabama.

“I’m Chad.”

“Hank.” He extended a large hand across the bar, then seemed to second-guess whether handshaking was the done thing in a gay bar, then committed to it anyway with a firmness that overcompensated for the hesitation.

Chad shook it. The grip was warm, slightly damp, and his hand practically swallowed Chad’s.

“Nice to meet you, Hank. In town on business?”

“No, I—I live here. I’ve lived here for some time, actually. I’ve just never—” He stopped. Started again. “I’ve been meaning to. Come somewhere like this. For a while.” Another stop. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“It didn’t sound pathetic.” Chad let himself smile. “You came to a gay bar for the first time and you wore a baseball cap and business casual?”

Hank looked down at himself—the Oxford, the khakis, the loafers—and back up at Chad with an expression so sheepish it bordered on agricultural. “Is it that obvious?”

“That you’re new at this? Little bit. But it’s working for you, trust me. The whole straight-boy-stumbles-into-a-gay-bar thing? Very charming.”

Hank laughed—a genuine, surprised sound, like he hadn’t expected to and was slightly alarmed that he had. “I’m not—I mean, I’m not straight. Obviously. I wouldn’t be here if I were.” A pause. “Although I suppose straight men do come to gay bars sometimes. I’ve read that. Is that a thing? I don’t actually know the⁠—”

“Hank.”

“Yes?”

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Oh.” He looked at his nearly empty glass as if he’d forgotten about it. “Yes. Please. Maker’s Mark. Neat.”

“Bourbon guy. I had a feeling.” Chad grabbed the bottle from the top shelf and poured two generous fingers. He slid the glass across the bar. “This one’s on me.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to. Consider it a welcome gift.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Fair warning, though—in about an hour, this place is going to get very loud and very gay. Tuesday Tunes. Broadway sing-along.”

Hank’s eyebrows rose. “Broadway?”

“You’ve been warned. If Sondheim isn’t your thing, now’s your chance to escape.”

“I’ll risk it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “I like Sondheim.”

Of course, you do.

Chad had to pull away to handle other customers, but he kept stealing glances down the bar. Hank nursed his bourbon, watching the room with the careful attention of a man cataloging something he’d waited a long time to see.

Who are you, Hank-in-the-baseball-cap?

During a brief lull, he returned, setting a bowl of bar mix in front of Hank like an offering.

“So what do you do, Hank? Besides drink bourbon and look lost?”

“I work—I’m in government. On the Hill.” He said it the way you’d set down a glass you suspected was cracked—with exaggerated precision and minimal movement. “Policy. Paperwork, mostly.”

He’s hiding something.

Half of DC worked for the government. The ones who said “paperwork, mostly” were either filing clerks or running the country. Chad would’ve bet his tips on the latter.

But he let it slide. Everyone had secrets. God knew he had his own.