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Tentatively at first, and then bolder with time and the serendipity of everyday workplace interactions, they develop a routine.

Or rather, several routines, each one more dangerous than the last.

Monday morning finds them in the mechanical room, Chris pressing Dennis against humming pipes.

"Someone could— ah! Come in," Dennis gasps as Chris's teeth find his neck.

"Locked the door." Chris's hands make quick work of Dennis’s belt. "Besides, everyone's at the morning briefing."

"Which we should be at— fuck! "

"You were saying?" Chris smirks against his skin.

Tuesday afternoon it's Dennis’s turn. He crowds Chris into the supply closet and gets on his knees.

"Five minutes," he says, looking up through his lashes. "That's all you get."

"Princess," Chris's laugh turns into a groan, "that's all I need ."

Wednesday, they barely make it to Chris's car, windows fogging up in the underground parking.

Thursday, it's the site office after hours, blueprints scattered across the floor.

Friday, they're reckless, desperate after a week of hiding. Chris corners Dennis at his desk, one hand braced on either side of his chair, caging him in.

"Someone could walk in," Dennis warns, but his hands are already reaching for Chris's collar, pulling him closer.

"Let them." Chris's voice drops lower, rougher. His lips brush Dennis’s jaw. "Give them something to talk about."

Footsteps echo down the hall—multiple sets, getting closer.

Instead of pulling away, Chris's mouth curves into that sly smile, the one that sends a rush through Dennis’s stomach, as he tilts Dennis’s chin up.

"Last chance to stop me, princess."

Dennis answers by yanking him down into a kiss.

They barely break apart when Jason's voice carries through the door: "—need those reports by—"

Chris straightens up, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Dennis’s hands are still tangled in his shirt.

"My place later?" Chris asks, voice pitched low enough that only Dennis can hear.

"Depends on how much work you let me get done now," Dennis mutters, but they’re both already calculating how long it'll take his Uber to get there.

The door opens wider. They spring apart, but not quite fast enough to hide their matching grins, the electricity still crackling between them.

Some risks, Dennis is learning, are worth taking.

*****

But it's not just the physical stuff. Somewhere between stolen kisses and hidden touches, they start... working together. Actually working.

"These load calculations are wrong," Chris says one afternoon, frowning at Dennis’s tablet.

They're having lunch in the office, Chris's feet propped on Dennis’s desk like he belongs there.

"The bamboo can handle more stress than this."

"Teach me."

Chris sits up straighter and pulls the tablet between them. His finger traces along each line as he explains tensile strength and compression loads. "See here? If we account for the cellular structure..."

His voice becomes background music while Dennis watches those work-roughened hands move across the screen. Studies the way Chris's brow furrows in concentration. How his shoulders square with authority when he's talking about something he knows inside and out.

Dennis can’t help but notice that Chris explains complex engineering principles with the same focus he uses to take Dennis apart when they’re alone together. How he makes sustainability sound sexy somehow.

Maybe that’s why Dennis finds himself looking forward to their discussions. To Chris's insights. To how their vision aligns more often than not.

Their shared lunches expand beyond the office.

First it's coffee runs—Chris forcing his syrupy caramel triple-pump vanilla concoctions on Dennis while he chokes down each sip.

"How do you still have teeth with all this sugar?" Dennis grimaces at the cup like it personally offends him. “Dude, it’s literally diabetes in a cup.”

Chris takes a sip of Dennis’s proffered iced Americano—quadruple shot, no sugar—then recoils with his whole face.

" Blech! Says the man drinking liquid tar." Chris hacks like a cat coughing up a hairball, sticking out his tongue.

He eyes Dennis’s cup in horror. "Maybe you’d be sweeter to me if you didn’t drink that godawful crap, princess. No wonder you’re so mean to me!”

They return bearing enough treats to distract the crew—donuts and cookies making everyone conveniently blind to how long they've been gone.

Some days they're not as subtle as they think they are, but happily, sugar seems to have a way of buying silence.

Then it's site walks—innocent brushes evolving into Dennis’s palm dragging across Chris's crotch behind the lumber pile, Chris's fingers digging into the round of Dennis’s ass whenever they duck behind the stacked scaffolding stock to "check measurements."

That's how they find the next kitten.

"Another one?" Chris asks, finding Dennis crouched by the foundation.

A tiny orange face peers out from behind concrete blocks.

"Three," Dennis corrects. "Looks like siblings."

"Shelter again?"

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"Actually..."

Which is how they end up spending their lunch breaks hunting strays across Sacramento.

Chris seems to have a sixth sense for finding them—behind dumpsters, under porches, in abandoned lots.

"How do you always know?" Dennis asks after their fourth rescue mission.

Chris shrugs, gentle hands scooping up a scraggly mother cat. "Used to feed strays as a kid. You learn their patterns."

Dennis adds this to his growing list of Chris Mysteries. Files it away with the Lexus and the expensive cologne and the way he sometimes stares at Oakview Heights like he's seeing ghosts.

Like those messages that light up Chris's phone—during work hours, site inspections, or when they’re alone together.

Just like that first morning after, except now, Dennis notices how each one transforms Chris's face: sometimes to anger, sometimes to sadness, sometimes to something like hope. How his smile might falter for just a moment before returning too bright. How sometimes he stares at his screen like it might bite him.

Dennis never asks.

Chris never offers an explanation.

Whatever personal battles Chris is fighting, Dennis isn’t that kind of fixture in his life.

Not his place to be.

The drives home get longer. More scenic routes. More detours.

Dennis never invites Chris up.

Chris never asks.

Perhaps they've drawn their lines without discussion. Built their walls with careful precision. Neither wanting to mention how easily they could all come down.

But sometimes, when they're tangled in the backseat of Chris's car, breathing hard and covered in marks that Dennis will admire later in his bathroom mirror—fingers brushing over each fading yellow bruise, their disappearance only soothed by the fresh purple blotches taking their place—he wonders what it would be like.

To have Chris in his bed. In his space. In his life properly.

He pushes the thought away.

This is enough.

It has to be.