Page 13

The balcony's tiny. Barely enough room for both of them.

Chris pads across the apartment, snatches a T-shirt from the floor on his way to the sliding door.

Outside, he drops onto a tatami mat, back against the wall, legs stretched along the narrow concrete. Overhead, the edge of the awning shields part of the balcony from the night breeze, but the stars remain unobstructed. The ukulele rests across his thighs.

"Come here." He holds out a hand. Shakes the T-shirt open to cover the mat between his legs, smoothing out the wrinkles with his palm. "Your throne awaits."

"Really?" Dennis eyes the shirt—one of Chris's work shirts, covered in sawdust and god knows what else. "I’m soooo spoiled."

"Only the finest for my princess." Chris's dimples flash. "Can't have that expensive ass of yours getting splinters."

Dennis turns and sits between Chris's legs, the velvety softness of his flaccid dick against the cleft of his butt—and it should feel weird being this close, but after everything they've done to each other…

His pulse skips when Chris's arms circle his waist, interrupting the thought.

The goosebumps from the feeling of their skin touching must be from his body not getting the memo that they're done with the intimate part of the evening.

Dennis convinces himself it’s from the night air pebbling his skin, and he focuses on that sensation instead of how natural this feels.

This doesn't mean anything—didn't Chris say that?

And Dennis agrees.

But Chris's warm. So warm.

Above them, stars pierce through the city haze. Below, traffic hums. Regular life carrying on while they hide in their bubble of starlight and aftermath. The candle’s glow from the kitchen window barely reaches them here, just a faint warmth at their backs.

Chris balances the ukulele on his thigh, the neck resting against Dennis’s hip while his other arm stays wrapped around Dennis’s waist. His fingers find the strings, and soft notes—gentle plucks that turn into a slow melody—drift up toward the stars.

"You play?"

"Sometimes." Chris rests his chin on Dennis’s shoulder. "When I need to think."

Dennis’s knees draw up, releasing his cock to dangle in the cool night air. His hands come to rest on Chris's thigh to help steady the instrument.

Chris's fingers dance across the strings, alternating between light strums and individually plucked notes that somehow make the tension seep from Dennis’s shoulders.

All those months of snapping at each other, and he never knew Chris could create something this peaceful.

"What are you thinking about now?"

Chris's chest rises and falls against Dennis’s back. "How different you are like this," he murmurs, a smile tucked into the words.

Dennis’s shoulders tense slightly at being seen. "Like what?"

"Quiet." Chris's lips brush Dennis’s ear. His nose pushes behind it, breathing Dennis in. "Soft."

"I'm not soft." Dennis wants to scowl, but between the music and Chris's scent and the lazy satisfaction still humming in his veins, he can't summon the energy.

"No?" Chris strums a chord. His lips trail from Dennis’s ear to his shoulder, depositing a chaste kiss there and staying for a prolonged moment before they brush away. "What are you then?" The words ghost across damp skin.

Good question.

Right now Dennis isn’t sure what he is.

The son who's failing his father?

The architect trying to change the world?

The guy sitting naked on his site manager's balcony while said site manager plays him music?

None of those feel quite right.

"Play me something," Dennis says, instead of answering.

Chris laughs. Low and warm. "Demanding."

"And make it good."

"When have I ever disappointed?"

"Every day at work.

"I build good. I save kittens good." His teeth graze the bruise he made on Dennis’s neck, making him gasp. "Made you moan pretty good too."

"Careful with that ego, it might not fit through doors." Dennis mutters, but his skin reignites hot where Chris’s mouth has touched it.

"Want me to prove it again?" Chris's voice drops lower. "Night's still young, princess."

"Just play the damn song."

"As you wish." Chris's smile presses against his shoulder. "Something special, just for you."

His fingers flit across the strings, and music spills into the night air.

The melody's sweet. Simple. When Chris starts humming, his voice surprises Dennis—deep and rich, nothing like his usual cocky drawl. The vibration carries through Dennis’s body, making him sink deeper into Chris's embrace.

Words flow into the night, soft and low:

What if we broke from these lines they drew?

Built something real, something new

Not what they planned, not what they see

Just who we are, just you and me...

Dennis listens, caught in the warmth of Chris's voice. It's beautiful—too beautiful to break with any of his usual sarcasm.

He risks a glance and sees Chris, eyes closed, lost in the melody, his expression unguarded.

The night wraps around them like a blanket—Chris's warm, sexy musk, the lingering taste of his kisses, their bare skin sticky where they press together, the humid air making everything feel dreamlike.

There's a weight to it, a feeling that tugs at something deep in Dennis’s chest, making the air feel still.

When the last note fades, he asks, "What song is that?"

"Something I wrote."

Dennis twists around so fast the ukulele slides off his lap, dangling from Chris's hand. "You write music?" His mouth falls open, eyebrows shooting up.

"Sometimes." Chris’s gaze doesn’t meet his eyes. "When I can't sleep."

"Do you not sleep often?"

"Not lately." Chris's fingers still on Dennis’s waist. "Too many thoughts."

"About what?"

"You really want to know?"

Dennis shifts, twisting until he's sitting sideways between Chris's legs, his hip pressed against Chris's stomach. His hand finds Chris's knee, fingertips tracing the bone there.

Chris glances at the touch, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Tell me."

Chris sets the ukulele aside. Wraps his arms around Dennis’s waist, chin settling on his shoulder before he presses his face into Dennis’s neck.

"I think about choices," he says into Dennis’s skin. "About expectations. About trying to be something you're not, just to prove you can be."

"That's..." Dennis swallows. "Specific."

"Yeah." Chris's arms tighten. "Sometimes life just hits you that way."

More words hover between them. Questions Dennis wants to ask. Answers Chris might give.

But the night feels too fragile for questions.

So Dennis turns in Chris's arms, his hand finding Chris's jaw before he can think better of it.

When their mouths meet, Chris's lips part instantly—no wariness, no calculation, just open and willing.

It makes Dennis feel funny inside, but his eyes close when he sees Chris's already have.

They kiss slow and deep, Chris's tongue dapping against his. He still tastes like Dennis, like the sounds they drew from each other earlier.

Chris's hands spread across his back, turn him until their chests press together. Fingers card through the hair at Dennis’s nape, thumbs stroking his cheekbones while they trade breaths.

This means nothing, Dennis reminds himself. They're just two guys too busy for dating. Too focused on work to look for actual girls and real relationships.

This is convenient. Simple. Mutual.

It doesn't matter that Chris still deepens the kiss like he can’t get enough, or that every touch smolders through the lazy aftermath of their earlier activities.

Doesn't matter that Chris's hands can't stay still—spreading over Dennis’s back, pulling him closer, fingers threading into his hair to tilt his head just right.

So Dennis lets himself pretend, just for now, that this could be simple.

That they could be simple.

A shooting star streaks overhead.

Neither of them makes a wish.

They don't need to.

Everything they shouldn't want is right here.