Page 15

Somehow, the construction site looks different in today’s morning light.

Less like Dennis’s dream project and more like evidence of terrible life choices.

Specifically, the kind that leaves finger-shaped bruises on your hips and stubble burn on your thighs.

"Problem, Mr. Kim?"

Dennis doesn't jump. He's a professional.

Professionals don't jump just because certain site managers have ninja-level sneaking abilities and voices that make his stomach drop into his shoes.

"Your face is doing that thing again," Chris says, somehow already behind him.

Near enough that Dennis can sense him in a palpable way that he can’t write off as his imagination.

"What thing?" Dennis keeps his eyes on his tablet.

These progress reports won't file themselves, and he absolutely cannot look at Chris right now.

Not when he knows exactly how those hands feel on his skin. How that voice sounds when it drops to barely a murmur.

When it’s softer.

Breathier.

Closer .

Dennis’s whole body goes electric, every inch of him aware of Chris’s presence. He's never felt more alive or more desperate to run away.

"That overthinking thing." Chris steps closer.

Close enough that Dennis catches a hint of his cologne—the expensive one that definitely doesn't match his ratty work jeans.

The scent hits his nose and suddenly he's back there—skin on skin, hours stretching into forever, everything too much yet not enough.

Dennis forces his breathing steady, runs through his mental checklist: face neutral, spine straight, hands still. If Chris would just shut up and leave...

"Like you're reliving last night instead of just admitting you miss me."

"Don't." Dennis takes a huge step forward, putting enough space between them for Jesus and all twelve disciples. "We're at work."

"Very astute." Chris's eyes scan the empty office. "But I only see you here, princess." His voice drops. “Noone else.”

"I am someone, Chris." Dennis’s jaw tightens. "And I'd appreciate some professionalism."

"Professionalism?" Chris's fingers trail along the desk as he circles closer, like a tiger cornering its prey.

Dennis forces the word past his dry throat. "Normal…ness."

"Nothing normal about us though, is there, princess?"

Dennis’s grip tightens on his tablet. "Chris..."

"Alright, alright." Chris holds up his hands. Takes a step back. "Professional distance. Got it."

But his eyes drop to Dennis’s neck—to the mark Dennis definitely didn't do a good enough job covering this morning—and his smile turns wicked.

"Nice scarf by the way. It's ninety degrees out."

"Fashion knows no temperature." Dennis whips around, fixing Chris with his best death glare.

Chris's eyes travel the length of him, measured and knowing. "You're hot enough without it."

“Chris!”

But even to himself, Dennis sounds strained.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” Chris sighs as he saunters to the door, all confidence and swagger like he didn't just scramble Dennis’s brain cells.

At the doorway, he taps the toe of his boot behind him, pivoting smoothly to face Dennis again.

"Oh, and princess?" He raises one finger like he's just remembered something important.

" What? " Dennis’s face feels like it's on fire.

"Your report's upside down."

Dennis looks down.

"Oh for fuck's sake—"

By the time he looks up, Chris is gone, leaving the door wide open behind him. His laughter mingles with the growing cacophony of drills starting up and materials being unloaded as the site comes alive.

Dennis lets out a breath. Turns his report right side up. Tries to remember why sleeping with his site manager is a terrible idea.

But all he can think about is how Chris looked in the candlelight.

How he sounded singing under stars.

How he felt pressed against him, real and solid and right.

"Good morning!" Jason bursts in, way too cheerful for this hour. "Why are you crushing that poor tablet to death?"

Dennis loosens his grip. "I'm not?”

"Sure." Jason drops into a chair. "And that's definitely not a hickey under your scarf."

"It's not?" Dennis yanks the silk higher, clearing his throat. Why did Chris have to leave one so high up?! "It's, um, uh..."

"Who even wears an ascot anymore? What is this, your grandfather's country club or some kind of gay prep school fantasy?"

“Jae, for fuck's sake," Dennis hisses, eyes darting to the open door like someone might materialize any second. " Shut up, will you!"

Jason throws his head back laughing, nearly tipping his chair over.

"And I'm not gay!"

Dennis’s eyes roll up as he actually considers it for the first time in his life.

The evidence suggests otherwise, but then what about all the women he's been with—and been mind-blowingly good with, thank you very much?

Though last night with Chris...

No, that was just a one-time thing. He doesn't feel any different.

Does he?

"I don't think?" He shakes his head hard. "I can't be. No way."

"Join the club." Jason props his feet up on the desk. "We meet Thursdays."

"Get your feet off my desk."

"Our desk." But Jason complies. Tilts his head. "You seem tense. Rough night?"

Images flash through Dennis’s mind:

Hands in his hair. Teeth on his skin. That goddamn song that's been stuck in his head since Chris's voice first carried it up to the stars.

"Fine," Dennis says shortly, face a mask of indifference. "My night was fine."

A wolf-whistle pierces the air. Their heads snap toward the window.

Chris is on the scaffolding, shirt already off and hanging on one shoulder as he demonstrates something to his crew.

When he turns, the sun catches his profile—the length of his body, tight and lean, chiseled muscle disappearing into work pants slung low—and for a moment, he looks like something carved from marble.

Then he spots Dennis watching.

His grin turns predatory.

Dennis whips around. Faces Jason's knowing smirk.

"Don't." He brandishes his tablet like a weapon. "I will make your life a living hell."

"Wasn't gonna." Jason holds up his hands. "Just thinking... maybe we need new safety protocols."

"We have safety protocols." Dennis blinks, derailed by the question.

"Yeah, but do they cover workplace hazards like site managers who can't keep their shirts on—"

"One more word and you're fired."

"You can't fire me." Jason's grin widens. "I know too much."

A low laugh cuts through the office—Chris's signature sound, the one that used to make Dennis’s spine straighten with rage but now sends something else shooting through his veins.

His crew's laughter follows, echoing off the beams above.

Dennis stares determinedly at his tablet. What’s so funny? He doesn’t know because he doesn’t care. He also refuses to care about the heat crawling up his neck.

Refuses to admit that "professional distance" might be the biggest lie he's ever told himself.

His phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

Scarf's slipping, princess

Dennis blocks the number without looking up.

His phone buzzes again.

Nice try, but I got more

This time Dennis does look out the window.

He finds Chris already watching—handing a phone back to one of his grinning crew on his left, accepting a phone from another guy on his right, grin just as wide—that aggravating smile he keeps just for Dennis still in place.

How many phones are you gonna use?? Dennis’s thumbs attack his screen with vengeance.

Bzzz.

As many as it takes

"You know," Jason says thoughtfully, "for someone who was just having a sexuality crisis, those texts seem to be making you pretty happy."

Dennis schools his expression. Looks up, then scowls the biggest, meanest scowl he can muster.

"Don't you have work to do?" His voice carries the sharp edge that usually sends interns running.

"Don't you have a site manager to do?"

"Park Jae Sun! Out. Now! "

Jason cackles all the way down the hall.

Through the window, Chris is still perched on the scaffolding, one arm hooked around a beam, his free hand shading his eyes as he watches Dennis.

Still smiling.

Still making Dennis’s heart do stupid things in his chest.

Professional distance.

Right.

Because that's totally going to work.