Page 14

Sunlight pierces through uncovered windows, rousing Dennis from sleep.

Something heavy drapes over his waist.

He blinks, mind cotton-filled.

Where...? Who...? Wha...?

This isn't his Egyptian cotton. This isn't his memory foam mattress.

He tries to prop himself up to piece together his surroundings, but his body won't budge.

His hands fumble forward and back—finding coarse fingers pressed against his stomach, a forearm hard from construction work, and behind him, glutes and thighs that speak of too many squats at whatever fancy gym they pretend not to have a membership to.

These are definitely not his body parts.

Oh.

Right .

Every inch of Chris presses against his back—muscles, skin, even his breathing making itself known with each tiny movement.

His exhales tickle Dennis’s neck. One arm locks Dennis to his chest, the other stretched above them both. Their legs weave together, bare skin on bare skin.

Last night comes flooding back.

Heat crawls up Dennis’s cheeks.

The balcony. The song. Everything before that.

Everything after that.

Holy shit . What was he thinking?! This was supposed to be simple—no strings, no complications.

Now it's messy and weird and all fucked up, ohgodohgodohgod .

"Your brain's too noisy," Chris mumbles against his shoulder.

"Your face is too noisy," Dennis shoots back amidst the panic.

"Your comeback needs work." Chris's arm tightens. "Must've worn you out last night."

Dennis’s whole body stiffens at the reminder. Oh my god , the sounds he made.

"Did not."

"Did too."

"I wasn't even that loud!"

"Just calling it like I heard it, princess. And I heard plenty."

"Maybe your ears need ears because that's ridiculous."

"So is your ass—"

Chris rolls his hips forward, his morning hardness pressing against Dennis in a way that makes him suddenly very aware they're still naked.

" Mmm… ” Chris breathes him in, long and slow, nose buried in his hair, “ridiculously sexy, that is— but here we are."

Dennis’s eyebrows scrunch together at the remark and he elbows backward. Hard .

It gets him an oof and a laugh that sounds far too pleased about being jabbed in the ribs.

"Too early for this," Chris murmurs against his ear, squishing himself right back, flush against Dennis. His skin prickles when Chris catches the lobe between his teeth, nipping at it then sucking off. "How you feeling?"

Dennis sinks deeper into the mattress, morning haziness making everything soft and fuzzy, lazy and all too comfy, despite himself. "Awful,” he mumbles to the room at large. “Hate you."

"Didn't hate me last night."

No. He really didn't.

Chris's hand slides lower, fingertips finding the bruises on Dennis’s pelvis he left hours ago. His mouth traces from Dennis’s nape to his shoulder, each kiss waking up more nerve endings Dennis didn't even know existed. When he pushes closer, his cock rests heavy along the cleft of Dennis’s ass, no longer urgent but definitely present. "Want breakfast?"

Dennis stares at the cracked hardwood floor in front of him instead of focusing on the heat pooling in his stomach. "You cook?"

"I microwave with style." Chris's palm spreads and circles over Dennis’s toned stomach, then slides lower beneath the blanket until Dennis’s breath hitches. Everything below his waist starts paying very close attention.

"Horrifying." But Dennis doesn't pull away. His stomach hollows on instinct, trying to escape Chris's touch, but Chris just follows the movement, pressing in deeper.

It makes Dennis’s neck stretch back and his hips push backward; what does any of this have to do with breakfast anyway?

Bzzzz!

The sound cuts through the room like a bucket of ice water.

They freeze, their breathing stopping mid-inhale, the only movement in the room the persistent buzzing of the phone.

"Yours or mine?" Dennis asks, arousal vanishing as reality crashes back.

"Fuck," Chris mutters, "mine." Chris reaches past him, grabbing his phone off the floor, then rolls onto his back.

The loss of contact leaves Dennis’s skin cold. He turns around onto his other side, head propped on his palm, watching Chris scroll through his phone.

His limbs feel empty now—already used to being tangled with Chris's after a whole night of laying together. They itch for the closeness but the harsh morning light streaming through the windows makes everything feel too raw, too real.

Good timing too, because Chris's entire body goes rigid.

"Shit."

"What?"

"Nothing." Chris bolts upright, sheets pooling in his lap. Every muscle in his torso tenses as he rakes fingers through his hair. His face transforms from soft morning warmth to something sharp and controlled. "Just... work stuff."

"Work stuff on your personal phone?" Dennis’s eyebrow rises even as his stomach sinks. Though really, given Chris's history with phones…

"Yeah, I—" Chris stops. Takes a breath. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips while his thumb hovers over the screen. "Rain check on breakfast?"

Just like that, the bubble bursts.

"Sure." Dennis rolls away, suddenly too aware of his nakedness, of last night's incredibly stupid decisions in the cold light of day. "I should go anyway."

"Dennis—"

His actual name in Chris's mouth makes everything worse.

Dennis moves faster, snatching up clothes—underwear and pants by the door, shirt under the kitchen counter.

"It's fine." He shoves one leg into his pants, trying to button his shirt with his other hand, eyes fixed anywhere but Chris. "This was..."

Fun?

A mistake?

The best night he's had in years?

Why is he even still talking? Force of habit, maybe, or that ingrained need to be polite even in the most awkward of situations.

There’s a right way to end these things, after all. No one could ever accuse Dennis of not demonstrating the most polished etiquette, no matter how short or long the night spent together.

"This was… whatever," he finishes lamely.

Chris watches him, phone forgotten in his hand. The softness from moments ago hardens into something else—like shutters closing behind his eyes, his jaw setting into familiar lines.

"Yeah," Chris says finally, voice clipped. "Whatever."

Something twists in Dennis’s gut, bitter and dark.

Of course. This was just a hookup. Why should he care who's texting Chris? Why should it matter how Chris's face just changed like someone flipped a switch?

It's not like they're... anything.

That thought alone makes bile rise in his throat.

What is wrong with him? Why is he so… not casual or easy-going? Ever?!

He can't even do a one-night stand right!

He finishes putting on his clothes with mechanical efficiency, refusing to remember gentle hands or candlelight or dumb ukulele songs under stars. He yanks his shirt straight and tucks it in with trembling fingers that he pretends aren't shaking at all.

One shoe goes on as he's stumbling toward the exit. The other follows as he reaches for the door handle.

It sticks because of course it does, everything in this building is as stubborn as its resident. He pulls harder.

"Den..."

Chris's footsteps approach behind him and panic surges through Dennis’s chest.

He jerks the door so hard it finally gives, then he's through it, trying to pull it closed but the damn thing fights him again. He leaves it hanging awkwardly open, his shoulder protesting the force from his arm being almost wrenched off.

He makes himself walk—not run, definitely not run—to the stairs, Chris's gaze burning holes into his back.

The moment he hits the first landing, his composure shatters. He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time, nearly crashing through the lobby in his rush to escape.

Oh god. Work. How are they supposed to face each other at work?

This is definitely weird now. This is beyond weird. This is a catastrophe of his own making.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck why did he have to go and ruin everything?

Dennis just exits the front door when there’s a rattle of falling failed architecture from above.

He throws an arm up, bracing for the rain of loose tiles, just as Chris's window bangs open above.

"See you at work, princess!" Chris shouts at the top of his lungs, voice echoing down the street.

Dennis freezes mid-step on the sidewalk, mortification flooding through him as early morning joggers and coffee-clutching commuters turn to stare. His face burns hot enough to fry an egg as a group of elderly women pauses their power walk to whisper behind their hands.

But something light bubbles in his chest, pushing past the embarrassment.

Because that's Chris's normal voice—playful, teasing, nothing like the tension from moments ago.

Like he's making sure Dennis knows that whatever that phone call was about, it doesn't change... whatever this is.

The knot in Dennis’s stomach unravels.

"I hate you!" Dennis yells back, straightening up, lips twitching as the power-walking ladies gasp in scandal. “And you weren’t even that good,” he shouts in afterthought.

"No you don't!" Chris's laughter chases him down the street. “And yes, I was!”

Dennis keeps walking, shoulders back, chin up, absolutely refusing to look back or acknowledge Chris again. He makes it halfway down the block before he realizes he's smiling.

His face still burns, his dignity is somewhere back on Chris's mattress, and he's pretty sure those old ladies are going to pray for his soul, but...

Whatever indeed.