Kellard had done the arithmetic before he sat down: seven o'clock, three glasses, the middle cushion left empty, a takeout menu under one of them. The record was already on. Raskin's overshirt had come off one shoulder an hour ago and neither of them had bothered to fix it.

He was in Raskin's lap, knees bracketing his hips, one hand buried in chestnut hair, his own shirt somewhere behind the couch with his keys. One broad hand was on him, not hidden, not hurried. They had been kissing like this since the first side ended.

Neither of them heard the key.

Then the door opened.

Kellard turned first. His mouth left Raskin's slow enough to be seen. His hand went still in Raskin's hair. He did not climb off.

Raskin looked past him toward the doorway. His hand stayed exactly where it was.

Kellard did not cover himself and did not reach for the shirt. A dark mark was starting on his throat and he left it there. The clock over the kitchen said six fifty-two.

He looked at it, then back at you, still seated across Raskin's thighs.

He turned his head just enough to look at Raskin. His voice came out wrecked and dry at the same time.

Raskin's thumb moved once at his hip — not pulling away, just checking he was still there — and stayed.

Kellard said. He almost reached for the missing shirt, then didn't. He stayed where he was, knee still hooked around Raskin's side, and looked at you like hiding would be the dishonest part.

He had rehearsed a version of this at the drafting table on Tuesday. It had been worse.

For once, he did not answer first.