Page 23

"Someone on Facebook reported kittens near Pacifica," Chris says one Friday morning, leaning into Dennis’s office doorway. His safety vest hangs unzipped as usual. "Want to check it out tomorrow?"

"Pacifica?" Dennis raises an eyebrow. "That's two hours away."

"Good surf spots." Chris's dimples appear. "Not that we’d be surfing," he winks.

Which is how Dennis finds himself in Chris's Lexus at dawn, watching fog roll over coastal highways.

Chris drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Dennis’s thigh, thumb stroking circles that make it hard to focus on the scenery.

They stop at a gas station halfway there. Middle of nowhere, paint peeling off concrete walls.

"Need anything?" Chris asks, already heading for the bathroom.

Dennis follows because maybe he does .

The bathroom door is barely locked before Chris has him against cracked tiles, hands working his jeans open.

"Wanted to touch you since we left," he breathes against Dennis’s neck.

Dennis wanted it too. Perturbed as he was—and a little hurt—that Chris hadn’t initiated something that morning besides a quick peck on the lips as he held the car door open.

But because they’re in public, instead he says, "Someone could— ah!"

Then his protest cuts off as Chris guides Dennis’s hand to his crotch, while he starts stroking Dennis off with his own.

They make it to Pacifica eventually. Find the reported kittens behind a seafood restaurant—three white balls of fluff that Chris somehow coaxes out with infinite patience.

"Here kitty," he coos, holding out his hand. His voice goes soft in that way it only ever does when he’s talking to cats or has Dennis in his bed. "It's okay, baby. Not gonna hurt you."

The gentleness surprises Dennis every time. The same hands that leave bruises on his hips now carefully wrap around tiny bodies. The same voice that whispers filth in his ear now makes soothing sounds until scared kittens creep closer.

They develop a system. Chris does the initial approach while Dennis readies carriers and blankets.

Sometimes they drive hours for reported strays where, coincidentally there’s a super famous out-of-the-way restaurant that makes the world’s best ribs and requires a month’s booking in advance, that Chris somehow magically just happens to have.

Sometimes they find them in the same area as a medieval castle that happens to have a whodunit mystery night that Chris produces tickets to on the spot.

One Sunday they end up in the mountains, following reports of abandoned cats near hiking trails. They don't find any strays, but Chris pulls off at a viewpoint just before sunrise.

"Come here," he says, leading Dennis to the guardrail. He positions Dennis in front of himself, chest to chest, Dennis’s hands clutching Chris’s shoulders.

Dennis is a little giddy at this height. Spikes of anxiety from them tripping and falling down the cliffside mess with his head, making his body misinterpret the fear into that wet patch that’s already forming in front of his underwear.

Chris’s gaze never leaves Dennis’s eyes even as he unbuckles him. Unzips him open. Cleans his hands with sanitizer and coats them with lube. "I want to watch the sun come up with you."

His fingers slip into Dennis’s lowered pants as pinks and yellows and purples start bleeding into the sky. Chris makes him part his legs so he can work him open slow and lazy while birds wake around them.

Dennis croons, fingertips digging into Chris’s shoulders, his forehead resting on Chris’s.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers, princess,” Chris instructs, breathy as Dennis pants at the effort of containing arousal and acrophobia and wanting to show Chris that he can .

It all rolls up into a ball of something terrifyingly overwhelming, even as he rides Chris like this—first two fingers, then three—up and down, dragging his walls along the familiar bumps of rough, comforting knuckles that sting as well as they stretch.

"Beautiful," Chris whispers, but he's not looking at the sunrise.

They always keep pet food in the Lexus now. Water bowls too. Chris and Dennis know every stray cat hangout in three counties and Chris always carries treats in his work jacket.

"You're getting soft," Dennis teases one day, watching Chris hand-feed a skinny tabby.

"Only for them." Chris’s free hand finds Dennis’s ass, squeezing shamelessly. "Still plenty hard for you, princess."

Somehow Chris's apartment becomes their default. Dennis brings over pots he's never used, spices still sealed in plastic. They pick recipes together, shop together, cook together.

Or try to.

"The chicken's burning," Dennis gasps one night, bent over Chris's counter.

"Chicken needs to be well done," Chris says, suddenly an expert on poultry and all things culinary. "Well-known fact, that."

He slides his cock between Dennis’s thighs, taking care to lift himself onto his toes, so his shaft slides back and forth along the underside of Dennis’s sex, the head jabbing at his taint and leaving trails of precum. "A couple more minutes won’t hurt.”

"Chris—" Dennis exclaims, his own toes rising as his knees tremble, Chris keeping him suspended with the pressure of his cock and persistent hands.

"The way you moved, getting those spices." Chris’s hand slides to the back of Dennis’s thigh, hiking one bent knee up onto the counter. This makes space for the length of his dick to push harder against Dennis, rubbing insistently, his other palm holding it tightly in place. All Dennis can do is arch. "Stretching high, shirt riding up... baby, I had to have you."

With a pan of charred chicken for dinner, they end up at their usual cafe—some hole-in-the-wall place where no one looks twice at them. Where they can sit side-by-side without it being weird and no one notices how Chris's hand stays on Dennis’s thigh under the table.

"My brand-new pan," Dennis grumbles, stabbing a fork into his omelet. "It’s going to take days of soaking, and I’ll never get the burn marks out."

"Life’s hard, babe," Chris says with zero sympathy, slicing through a stack of five pancakes at once. The piece he offers to Dennis on a proffered fork is so squashed it’s flattened all the way from the tines to the handle, syrup dripping off the sides and pooling messily on the table.

Dennis rolls his eyes and takes a prim sip of his coffee instead. "You’re buying me a new one."

"Or what?" Chris leers, "You gonna punch me?” He spears another chunk of pancake, cramming it into his mouth. His eyelids flutter as he nods, making appreciative mmm sounds through the mouthful of food. He turns back to Dennis. “Please say you’ll punch me."

"Chris, I will actually punch you, you freak," Dennis hisses, looking around just in case a truckload of people have just decided to walk in.

"Ok, fine, don’t punch me, then," Chris says, leaning back and adjusting his crotch with gusto. " Be selfish. You were so hot when you knocked my lights out, though. Man, I get bricked all day just thinking about it." He sucks in air through his teeth. "Hurts my dick, bro."

"Oh my god , you fucking masochist," Dennis screech-mutters, head in his hands. How does he even hang around this guy?

"You could be fucking this masochist a little more in about…" Chris glances at his watch, winks broadly at Dennis. "Oh, ten minutes."

Dennis tries to hold back a laugh, jabbing an elbow into Chris’s side.

"Ow!" Chris yelps dramatically, clutching his ribs like he’s been gravely injured.

His antics make Dennis bite his bottom lip, trying to hold firm, but the snort that escapes ruins everything.

Chris is giggling to himself now, much too pleased with his work.

Dennis leans back in his seat, finally letting the amusement settle. "When did you…" He falters, glancing away, embarrassed.

Chris looks up, mid-chew. "When did I what?" he prods, elbowing Dennis back before nudging him gently under the table with his foot when no reply comes.

"I dunno," Dennis says testily, his eyebrows scrunching in agitation as he crosses his arms over his chest. "When you… decided you didn’t hate me or whatever."

Chris sets down his fork and takes a long swig of hot chocolate, leaving a whipped cream mustache he doesn’t bother wiping away.

He leans back against the diner booth bench, eyes looking up as he thinks, while Dennis turns toward him, one leg bent with his thigh resting on the bench, ready to listen.

"I didn’t like you because I thought you were just another rich kid playing by daddy's rules." His tone stays light but something flickers behind his eyes. "Living that perfect golden life with nothing in that pretty head of yours—all style, no substance."

Dennis leans forward, methodically wiping first the left side of Chris's mouth with his thumb, then the right with his middle finger. He presses each to Chris’s lips in turn, letting him suck the cream off with practiced ease.

"Then I absolutely hated you when I caught myself staring at your ass in those fancy pants like some kind of thirsty, creepy perv and it pissed me off sooo bad." Chris shakes his head, the start of a smile touching the corner of his lips at the memory.

“You drove me crazy, princess.” He turns his head to look at Dennis. Grins easily. Places his hand on Dennis’s knee, thumbing at the edge of his kneecap. “Drove me up the goddamn wall.”

Dennis wrinkles his nose.

Chris laughs, reaching up to boop it with his finger.

"That first irritation-fueled wank fucked me up," Chris continues, casual as discussing the weather. "After the twentieth time, I figured, hey, I might as well put my dick where my brain kept going, you know?"

"Chris!" Dennis shouts, scandalized, cheeks red enough to match the tips of his ears.

Chris doubles over, laughing so hard he has to grip the edge of the table for support.

More hot chocolate sloshes over the rim of his mug, but he's too busy wheezing to care.

Oh well, Dennis thinks, glancing around at the empty café. At this time of night, no one’s here to notice. No one knows about us.

Us .

Dennis shakes the thought out of his head, stirring the coffee he shouldn’t have ordered a bit more violently.

It’s fine that no one knows, he reminds himself, as he watches Chris demolish pancakes at midnight.

Normal people don’t broadcast their relationships—or, well, situationships—anyway. Do they?

But something warm curls in his chest when Chris finally succeeds in making him steal a bite from his plate.

When their feet tangle under the table. When their lives seem to tangle just as easily.

Something that feels dangerous, like expectation.

Something that feels safe, like home.