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“Like this.”

He reached across the bar, grabbed the front of Hank’s Oxford, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was brief—barely more than a press of lips—but the contact reached something he’d spent two years trying to bury. Hank’s beard was scratchy and soft at the same time, his mouth warm, tasting of bourbon and underneath that, clean. He made a small, involuntary sound—surprise, or relief, or both—and Chad felt it vibrate against his lips.

When Chad pulled back, Hank looked like a man who’d been struck by lightning and was trying to remember his own name.

“Thursday,” Chad said. His voice came out rougher than he had intended. “Six-thirty.”

“Thursday.” Hank blinked. “Six-thirty. Yes.”

He fumbled for his wallet, pulled out three twenties, and set them on the bar with hands that weren’t entirely steady. “For the drinks.”

“That’s way too much.”

“Keep it.” Adjusting his cap with that same self-consciousness, Hank paused. “Thank you, Chad. For—for all of it. Tonight.”

“Anytime, handsome.”

Chad watched him leave, weaving through the thinning crowd toward the door. Hank glanced back once, just before stepping outside, gave a small wave—almost a salute—and then he was gone into the Dupont Circle night.

Chad stood there, holding a damp bar rag, grinning like an absolute idiot.

What the hell did you just do?

By the time he finished closing, it was nearly two a.m. He was exhausted, feet aching, the smell of beer and sweat baked into his skin. He pulled his Faith t-shirt back on, shouldered his backpack, and pushed out the employee exit into the alley.

The night air hit him—cooler now, carrying the faint sweetness of dying leaves and the not-so-faint stench of the dumpster ten feet away. He pulled out his phone to call an Uber.

A sound stopped him. Rustling. From the dumpster.

“Hello?”

A figure straightened up from behind the open lid—thin, filthy, clutching a half-eaten takeout container. It took Chad a moment to place the face. The cheekbones were sharper than he remembered. The eyes more hollow. When he did place it, his stomach dropped.

“Mac?”

Evan McDonough froze. “Chad.” His voice was hoarse. Stripped. “Hey. Long time.”

He looked terrible. Twenty years older than the last time Chad had seen him, at least forty pounds lighter. His clothes hung off him. His hands trembled around the Styrofoam container.

“Jesus, Mac.”

“I know how I look.” Mac set the container on the dumpster’s edge. “Don’t worry. Not here to cause trouble. Just… hungry.”

This was Mac—the man who’d taught him how to bartend, how to read a customer’s drink before they ordered it, how to make rent in an expensive city. Mac, who’d bent him over in that employee bathroom and made him believe it meant something. Mac, who’d shown him that some men will take everything you offer and still leave you empty.

“Are you clean?” Chad asked.

Mac’s laugh was thin and bitter. “Mostly. It’s been a rough couple of years.”

You and me both. But only one of us is eating out of a dumpster.

Chad thought about the steak sandwich in his backpack—the dinner he’d ordered from the kitchen and never gotten around to eating. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the container, and held it out.

Mac stared at it. “I can’t⁠—”

“Yes, you can. Take it, Mac.”