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Chapter Five

The next month passed in a blur. The DA had taken the deal, and Douglas was settling into his new foster home.

According to Derek, the boy was slowly turning into a healthy, rambunctious preteen.

There were still hurdles to overcome, scars that wouldn’t fade, but for now, he was safe. That was enough.

Henry hadn’t been as lucky. Despite his relentless efforts, fifteen people still lost their jobs. But he had saved the majority by winning the argument that the layoffs were illegal, and Lincoln knew he’d worked himself into the ground to make it happen.

And then there was his father.

Still clinging to life, still in the hospital, still refusing to ask for his estranged son.

To his surprise, his brother had kept calling. Every week, they spoke—not about their father, not about the years of silence, but about life. Work. Family. Politics. The weather. It wasn’t much, but it was something. An unexpected silver lining in the mess of it all.

And now, standing in the grand ballroom of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, Lincoln was bone-tired.

The chandeliers above glittered like frozen constellations, the low hum of conversation and the lilting strains of a jazz quartet weaving through the air.

Waitstaff in crisp uniforms moved seamlessly between the guests, offering champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

It was the kind of event that Lincoln used to navigate effortlessly.

Once, he had thrived on the game of it—measuring smiles, trading sharp words with sharper minds, knowing exactly when to speak and when to let the silence do the work.

But tonight, the weight of it pressed against him.

His posture was perfect, his suit tailored, but his energy drained too quickly. Just standing there, keeping up the illusion of effortless composure, felt like treading water with an anchor tied to his chest.

And Henry…

His gaze found him across the room.

Henry stood amid a small circle of attorneys, commanding attention with nothing more than presence. His deep blue suit was crisp against his warm skin, the way it always was, but Lincoln saw the telltale signs of fatigue in the set of his shoulders, the slight tension in his jaw.

Yet Henry made it look easy.

Even now, he exuded quiet power. People leaned toward him when he spoke, drawn in by the cadence of his voice, the weight he carried without trying. And Hannah Greenfield—Lincoln recognized her instantly—was leaning in closer than necessary.

She laughed at something Henry said, her fingers brushing his arm, lingering just a second too long.

Lincoln’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t have the energy for this.

For her.

For the tight, unpleasant twist in his chest, irrational and unwelcome.

“She’s not a threat, you know.”

Lincoln turned sharply to find Derek Kiriakis watching him over the rim of his drink. The social worker was dressed in a tux instead of his usual jeans, but his expression hadn’t changed—sharp, perceptive, cutting through Lincoln’s defenses like a blade through silk.

Lincoln huffed. “Didn’t say she was.”

Derek arched a brow. “Didn’t have to.”

Lincoln exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his champagne flute. “It’s not her.” He hesitated. “It’s me.”

Derek said nothing, just waited. The silence stretched, open and expectant.

Lincoln almost didn’t continue. Almost swallowed the words down like he always did.

But they clawed their way out anyway.

“I don’t know if I’m enough for him anymore.” His voice barely rose above a murmur. “I feel like I’m just… existing next to him. Like he’s already moved on and I’m still trying to catch up.”

Derek took a slow sip, then sighed. “You’re an idiot.”

Lincoln blinked. “Excuse me?”

Derek shook his head, tilting his glass toward where Henry stood. “Look at him. He’s barely paying attention to that conversation. His shoulders are squared, but not loose. His right hand is in his pocket, but his left…”

Lincoln followed his gaze and swallowed hard.

The words still sat heavy in his chest, the weight of them pressing down, but something else had settled beneath them now – a quiet pull he couldn’t ignore.

He exhaled, straightening his shoulders. “Excuse me,” he muttered to Derek, not waiting for a response.

His feet were moving before his mind caught up.

Moving purposefully, he crossed the ballroom, past the curious glances and polished smiles.

By the time he reached Henry’s side, he barely knew what he intended to say. It didn’t matter.

Henry turned toward him, brows lifting slightly, but Lincoln didn’t give him time to ask.

He sidled up, close enough for their shoulders to brush, and Henry’s hand slid into his before he could think too much.

“Come dance with me,” Henry murmured.

Lincoln blinked. “Dance?”

Henry lifted their joined hands, his thumb tracing over Lincoln’s knuckles. “It’s a gala, isn’t it?” A slow smirk curled his lips. “And I haven’t heard a waltz yet without stepping onto the floor.”

Lincoln hesitated, his gaze flicking around the room. The dance floor was full of well-dressed couples, moving in perfect rhythm—men in tuxedos, women in flowing gowns, paired as expected.

Not like him and Henry.

In their polished suits and with their poised movements, they fit the scene in theory. But two men waltzing together in the center of the grand ballroom, while not completely unheard of, would still turn heads, not always with judgment but certainly with notice.

A beat of doubt crept in.

Would people stare? Would it matter?

Henryhadn’tlooked around. Hadn’t even considered the optics. He was focused only on Lincoln, waiting.

Unapologetic.

And Lincoln?

He didn’t want to care.

He exhaled, then let Henry lead him forward.

Henry didn’t care. Not about the eyes on them. Not about the expectation of how things should be. He stood there, waiting, confidence wrapped around him like a second skin, as if the thought of them not belonging had never even crossed his mind.

The moment Henry’s palm settled against his back, warm and sure, Lincoln’s body resisted—shoulders stiff, breath too shallow.

Henry didn’t push.

He just waited.

Guided.

A shift. A step. A breath.

“Just follow me,” Henry murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Lincoln’s ear.

Lincoln’s fingers tensed in his hold, but his body responded before his mind did.

The first steps were cautious, his movements deliberate. He focused on the feel of Henry’s hand at his back, the subtle press of fingers leading him through the turn.

Henry was watching him. Reading him.

Adjusting.

Lincoln could feel it—the way Henry shifted his grip just slightly, the way he slowed the steps by a fraction, waiting for the moment Lincoln would stop thinking and simply?—

Breathe.

And then it happened.

The tension unraveled. The weight that had settled deep in his bones loosened its hold.

The moment hit like a release of breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His body gave in, falling into step with Henry’s without hesitation, without resistance.

He wasn’t fighting anymore.

He was following.

And trusting.

Henry’s frame was solid, steady, guiding him through each step with effortless precision. They moved as if they’d done this a thousand times.

Because they had.

Henry had always been his anchor, the center of his world—keeping him upright without making him feel like he was being held up.

Henry, who had always known exactly how to handle him.

Henry, who had never—not once—let him fall.

Lincoln closed his eyes for just a second, letting the rhythm of the dance settle inside him.

Henry felt it.

His fingers tightened, just slightly. A small squeeze against Lincoln’s hand.

You’re with me.

Lincoln exhaled.

The music swelled toward its final notes. Henry slowed their steps effortlessly, guiding Lincoln through the last turn, then drawing him in, just close enough that his lips barely ghosted over Lincoln’s cheek.

The world rushed back—the hum of conversation, the shift of fabric, the subtle scrape of polished shoes against marble.

But none of it mattered.

Not here.

Not now.

Lincoln met Henry’s gaze, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I needed this.”

Henry’s smirk softened, something deep and knowing flickering behind his eyes.

He didn’t need to say I know.

It was already there.

With their hands still joined, Henry lifted Lincoln’s fingers, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his knuckles.