Page 24

The new bamboo supports rise against Sacramento's skyline like the ribs of some prehistoric creature, their installation now routine after the success of the pavilion's first wing.

The crew's expertise shows—what took weeks of trial and error months ago now takes days, each beam slotting perfectly into place.

Dennis stands in the morning light, tablet forgotten in his hands as he watches their proven innovation replicate itself across the east expansion.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Chris's voice carries across the empty site.

It's too early for the crew, just them and the sunrise speckling everything gold.

"The load distribution's off on the east wing."

"Always the romantic." Chris steps closer, peering at Dennis’s tablet.

His open safety vest reveals a slice of white shirt that Dennis is definitely not thinking about removing in all sorts of ways because they’re at work and he’s a professional.

"Lemme see."

Dennis pulls up the calculations. Points to where the numbers don't quite align. "See? The stress points—"

"Are exactly where they should be." Chris's hand covers his on the screen and redirects to a different section. "You're not factoring in the natural flexibility of the material. Look at the bend ratio."

He's right. Of course he's right. Dennis hates when he's right.

"Since when are you the bamboo expert?" he says, trying not to frown.

"Since someone kept rejecting traditional supports." Chris's thumb strokes the inside of Dennis’s wrist, just once—professional distance dissolving like morning fog. "Had to learn fast to keep up with you."

The admission catches Dennis off guard. Pride unfurls beneath his ribs, warm and steady, spreading like the first light over the site.

"Fine,” he snips, still irritated but maybe just a smidge less so. “Show me," he says instead, unwilling to examine that feeling any further.

Chris guides him through the calculations, voice shifting into that focused tone he gets when he's explaining technical details.

His other hand rests on Dennis’s lower back, thumb hooked over the waistband of his pants like an anchor, a presence Dennis feels clearly through his crisp white dress shirt.

"The tensile strength increases here," Chris says, zooming in on the diagram. "When we angle the supports like this—" His fingers move deftly across the screen, adjusting lines until the structure flows differently.

"But… that changes the whole aesthetic."

"But doubles the stability." Chris's breath brushes his ear. "Sometimes beauty needs backbone, princess."

Dennis’s brows draw together, lips pursing as he snaps his elbow back, sharp and fast, toward Chris’s chuckles and a waiting hand that knows all too well how Dennis reacts, catching him easily.

Fingers close around his arm, firm but gentle, sliding up and down in a slow, reassuring stroke meant to placate. One that seems more habit than intention.

"Are you calling my design weak?!"

"I'm calling it perfect." The hand on Dennis’s back slides lower, coming to rest just above the curve of his ass.

Chris leans in, his warmth pulling Dennis closer as his lips hover near Dennis’s cheek, breath faint against his skin. "Just needs the right support."

It would be so easy to cross the line, to let the moment shift into something else. But it’s a new day.

There’s work to do.

Their morning rhythm becomes a dance of productivity and provocation. Chris sketches modifications while Dennis reviews permits, their chairs pushed close enough that their thighs touch under the desk.

When Chris explains load variations, his hand lands on Dennis’s knee. When Dennis points out structural concerns, he leans into Chris's space.

"The garden specs came back," Dennis says, spreading blueprints across his desk. "We need to adjust the central support beam to account for soil weight."

"Already handled it." Chris pulls up a 3D model on his tablet. "See? Redistributed the load here and—" He stops when Dennis stiffens. "What?"

"You changed my design without consulting me?"

"I improved your design." Chris zooms in on the modifications. "The original specs wouldn't have supported full planter boxes."

"That's not the point." Dennis’s voice has a bite to it. "You can't just—"

"Can't what? Do my job?" Chris's thumb still strokes his knee even as they argue. "Last I checked, that's why you hired me."

"I hired you to execute my vision, not—"

"To make it work." Chris's hand slides higher, contradicting his professional tone. "Which is exactly what I'm doing."

"By undermining my authority?"

"By supporting your genius." Chris grabs both arms of Dennis’s chair, yanking it around until Dennis faces him, still sitting stiffly upright with indignation.

Dennis wants to argue more. Wants to maintain some semblance of professional hierarchy. But Chris is looking at him like that—that mix of challenge and admiration that makes the butterflies in his stomach come to life.

"Show me again," Dennis sighs finally. "The load distribution."

Chris's grin gets twice as wide. "Which kind?"

"The structural kind, you menace." But Dennis doesn't move away when Chris rolls their chairs closer.

They actually work for a while, heads bent together over calculations. Chris points out stress points while his free hand absently skims up and down Dennis’s thigh. Dennis suggests aesthetic adjustments, his knee nudging gently against Chris’s, tapping like it’s making its own silent arguments.

It's professional.

Mostly.

Until Chris demonstrates material flexibility by bending Dennis over his own desk.

"These need to be signed by four," Dennis gasps as Chris works his pants down. The blueprints scatter, falling like leaves. "Chris—"

"Plenty of time." Chris's hands span his hips, thumbs finding yesterday's marks, pressing until Dennis hisses at the sweet ache. "Want to show you something first."

"What, more load distribution?" But Dennis is already spreading his legs, already arching back the way Chris loves.

"Mmm," Chris murmurs, his hand gliding down the toned curve of Dennis’s back to the dip of his ass. His longest finger slips into the cleft, resting there like it belongs. "Something like that."

He trails lower, finding Dennis still slick from their morning encounter in the supply closet. "God, how are you still so open for me?"

Dennis flushes, remembering how Chris had cornered him after the contractor meeting. How those rough fingers had worked him open while Chris whispered construction terminology against his neck.

"Tensile strength," Chris had murmured, crooking his fingers just right. "Means how much something can stretch before breaking."

Now those same fingers push back inside him, making him bite his lip to stay quiet.

"Someone could walk in," Dennis protests weakly, even as he pushes back for more.

"Everyone's at lunch." Chris adds another finger, stretching him wider. "Besides, you locked the door after Jason’s last attempt at stealing your fancy pen."

"But that’s the expensive pen for signing contracts— fuck !" Dennis’s voice breaks as Chris finds that spot inside him.

"Found your stress point," Chris says smugly. Then, because he's an asshole: "Want me to test its load-bearing capacity?"

"I hate you." But Dennis is already rocking back on Chris's fingers, chasing the sensation only Chris can give him—frantic for it. "Just... hurry up."

"No rushing structural integrity." Chris's free hand slides up Dennis’s spine, rucking his shirt higher. His lips follow each bump of bone, breath cooling the damp trail until Dennis’s skin pebbles beneath his mouth. "Gotta make sure everything's properly supported."

They've gotten good at this—quick but thorough.

Chris knows exactly how to work him open now, how to make him shake apart without making him scream. How to leave him aching but functional for afternoon meetings.

Professional.

Except for how Chris kisses his shoulder blades while fingering him. Except for how Dennis reaches back to tangle their fingers together when he comes.

These moments stay locked in the office, as classified as the blueprints they've scattered.

After lunch, the construction site pulses with activity, the smell of fresh sawdust mixing with wet concrete.

Chris stands at the folding table near the east wing, one hip cocked against the metal edge while he reviews material orders. Dennis is across the site, inspecting the latest bamboo delivery.

Dennis’s phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number:

Those pants make your ass look incredible, princess.

You know what would make your ass look even more incredible?

No pants.

Dennis’s head tips back with barely contained annoyance. He crosses the site to where Chris is apparently working, shoulders hunched over the table, weight braced on his palms as two phones sit on the metal surface.

"Another new phone?" Dennis’s lips twist to the side. He won’t smile if it kills him, dammit.

"Just upgrading." Chris taps his pen against the shiny device, throwing a wink over his shoulder. "Project management was very impressed with the value engineering."

"I didn't authorize any bonus." Dennis cocks his head. "Who else have you been keeping happy around here?"

Dennis is only half joking. The question comes out lighter than the sudden surge of jealousy churning in his gut.

"Baby, the way you drain me dry every night, it's a miracle I can even walk straight to the meetings."

Chris's attention returns to his papers, fingers spreading them wider across the table. His old phone buzzes against the metal surface. He silences it with a casual tap, but not before Dennis catches the flash of tension in his shoulders.

These interruptions seem more frequent lately—the kind that make Chris's jaw clench and his eyebrows furrow—or maybe with all the time they spend together these days, Dennis is just around to witness them more.

"Bold of you to assume I'll save your new number," Dennis quips, because making things easy for Chris goes against his principles.

"Please, you haven't blocked me in, what, three whole days?" Chris shuffles his papers into a neat stack. "Must be doing something right."

He doesn’t look up, but the small smile tugging at his lips is impossible to miss. It’s enough to make Dennis snort, shaking his head as he turns back to the bamboo delivery.

Later, during the supplier meeting, Chris sits beside Dennis at the conference table.

Professional distance restored—except for how Dennis’s foot hooks around Chris’s ankle under the table. For how Chris’s eyes linger on where Dennis’s collar hides fresh marks.

"The recycled wood panels are delayed," the supplier drones. "Raw material costs—"

"Unacceptable." Dennis’s voice carries that edge he inherited from his father. "We have installation deadlines."

"Market fluctuations—"

"Are factored into our contract." Chris leans forward, all business now. He pulls at their linked ankles, dragging Dennis’s foot closer to his chair beneath the table. "Your margins are protected. Our timeline isn't negotiable."

Watching Chris handle suppliers does something to Dennis. The way he switches from playful site manager to ruthless negotiator. The way he knows exactly which pressure points to push.

The way he backs Dennis’s vision without hesitation.

The supplier caves eventually. They always do when Chris gets that look in his eyes.

"That was hot," Dennis tells him after, crowding Chris against his office wall. The construction noise filters through the windows. Hammering and drilling that almost—but not quite—drowns out the rush of blood in his ears, fueling the burn in his cheeks as he leans in closer. "The way you shut him down."

"Yeah?" Chris’s hands find his hips like it’s second nature, tugging him closer without a thought. "Like watching me work, princess?"

"Like watching you win." Dennis nips his jaw. "Makes me want to thank you properly."

"During business hours?" Chris's mock scandalized tone doesn't match how he's already untucking Dennis’s shirt. "How unprofessional."

Dennis’s teeth scrape the unmarked side of Chris's neck, leaving tiny, neat love bites in their wake.

If Chris gets to mark him up, so very visibly, it's only fair he gets to return the favor—with more finesse, of course.

His palm slides down Chris's front, cupping his very prominent interest in current proceedings through his cargos. "Says the man who fingered me through the Zoom budget meeting yesterday."

"Had to keep you relaxed somehow." Chris spins them, pressing Dennis against the wall. "You get too tense during financial discussions."

Their laughter turns to gasps as hands find skin. They should wait. Should maintain some boundaries between work and whatever this is.

These days, professionalism seems to slip further with every locked door, every stolen moment.

They’re getting bolder. More careless. Or maybe they just couldn’t care less?

Either way, neither of them seems to mind.

Not when Chris's mouth is hot on his neck and Dennis’s hands are already behind himself, wrestling Chris's belt open and they've never been good at waiting.

Not when Chris keeps proving himself invaluable in ways Dennis never expected.

Not when every professional victory feels personal now.

They actually manage to work after that.

Chris reviews structural reports while Dennis updates timeline projections, both pretending they're not stealing glances when the other isn't looking.

"These compression tests are interesting," Chris says, frowning at his tablet. He's perched on the edge of Dennis’s desk, shirt still wrinkled from their earlier activities. "The bamboo's performing better than standard materials."

"Of course it is." Dennis can't help the pride in his voice. "That's why I chose it."

"Didn't believe it at first," Chris admits. "Thought you were just being stubborn about sustainability."

"And now?"

"Now I think you might be changing the industry." Chris's dimples appear. "Don't let it go to your head."

The professional praise ignites a particular thrill Dennis hasn't felt since his first building rose from paper to reality.

Chris believing in his vision means more than any investor's approval—not that he'll ever admit it.

He's about to say something embarrassing when Jason bursts in.

"Inspection results!" He waves papers excitedly, then pauses. "Why does it smell like—"

"What did they say?" Dennis cuts in quickly.

Chris's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"Passed everything." Jason's grin turns knowing. "Apparently our site manager's attention to detail really impressed them."

"Just doing my job." Chris slides off the desk, professional mask back in place. But his hand brushes Dennis’s shoulder as he passes. "Someone's got to keep our architect in line."

They celebrate that night at Chris's place, takeout containers scattered across his floor while they review the inspection notes.

"Look at this," Chris says, pointing to a comment. "Innovative use of sustainable materials demonstrates industry-leading potential.'" His voice carries genuine pride. "They're talking about you."

"Talking about us," Dennis corrects without thinking. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Chris goes quiet. When Dennis looks up, Chris is watching him with something soft in his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing." Chris sets the papers aside. Pulls Dennis into his lap instead.

Dennis’s hands rest around Chris’s automatically, their fingers intertwining themselves.

"Just like hearing you say that."

"Say what?"

"Us."

Dennis turns to face him. His knees bracket Chris's thighs, takeout forgotten.

The word hangs between them— us —leaving questions Dennis doesn’t quite know how to answer.

"The inspector also said—" Dennis starts, mouth dry, trying to redirect.

"Shut up about work." Chris's hands slide under his shirt, calluses catching on smooth skin. "I want to focus on something else."

"Like what?"

"Like how you look when you're proving everyone wrong." Chris tips Dennis’s chin up with two fingers, tracing his nose along Dennis’s jaw until his lips find the hollow behind his ear. "All confident and competent. Makes me want to wreck you."

"Thought you wanted to support my genius," Dennis gasps as Chris’s fingers undo the top buttons of his shirt, easing the fabric off one shoulder.

Chris leans in, his lips brushing against the exposed skin before his teeth sink in, making Dennis hiss, and leaving a bite where it’ll stay hidden beneath tomorrow’s clothes.

"Supporting doesn't mean I can't mess you up a little." Chris's teeth graze his collarbone. "Especially when you get all authoritative in meetings."

"That turn you on? Me being bossy?"

"You have no idea."

Chris strips Dennis’s pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. Helps him wriggle out of them just enough that Dennis can kick them off.

His fingers trail up Dennis’s calves, carefully pulling up each dress sock—black and finely ribbed—back into place, snug just below his knees.

His eyes rake over Dennis—shirt half-off one shoulder, socks sharp and perfect against the expanse of skin above.

"The way you handled that supplier today..." Chris’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Fuck."

Their lips meet, then they’re moving together like they've done this a hundred times. Maybe they have.

Dennis has lost count of how many nights end like this—project success turning into hungry touches, professional pride becoming something more primal.

Chris settles back against the foot of the couch while Dennis kneels beside him, mouth stretched wide around Chris's cock.

The position leaves Chris's hand free to roam, teasing between Dennis’s legs until Dennis is squirming, rocking himself between Chris's hardness and hand.

Chris’s fingers stretch and twist until Dennis is pushing back for more, until pleasure builds like their foundation work—steady, thorough, inevitable.

"Look at you," Chris breathes while he watches Dennis choke himself on his dick. Fuck himself onto Chris's fingers. "Can't get enough of how you look when you're like this, how you feel. Even if we never go all the way, I don't even care."

Dennis gags on Chris's girth, then pulls off, coughing into the back of his hand.

His bottom lip juts out at what Chris has said and a whine escapes his lips before he can stop it. "Don't say that!" he scowls, just a little pissy.

After weeks of preparation, the thought of not getting properly fucked makes his hole clench around Chris's fingers in protest.

These days, every time Chris's fingers push into him, Dennis can't help but imagine they're Chris's dick instead.

It should feel stupid, getting this obsessed with the idea, but his mind constantly wanders to it—how much thicker Chris would feel, stretching him beyond what fingers can do. How much deeper he'd reach.

Chris's fingers know exactly where to press against his walls, making him see stars, but his cock? God, would the angle be different? Would the fullness change everything?

The questions plague him late at night when he's alone.

During site visits when Chris bends to inspect something.

In the shower when his own fingers try and fail to recreate what Chris does to him.

Even now, with Chris three fingers deep, Dennis’s brain supplies unhelpful comparisons between digits and dick.

But Chris's other words distract him from these familiar musings.

His mind drifts to different certainties—about changing the industry together, about proving everyone wrong together. About how 'us' feels more natural than 'me' lately.

He comes like that—seated back on his heels, Chris's fingers deep inside him, hands gripping Chris's thigh as his body convulses. Chris's name garbles into a moan as ecstasy blanks his mind clean as a fresh drafting sheet.

The moment his body stops shaking, he dives back down onto Chris's cock, eager to give back the pleasure he's just received.

When Chris does ejaculate only a few moments later, Dennis’s mouth stays wrapped around his length, greedy for what Chris can feed him, savoring each pulse of release sliding down his throat.

At least this way, he has more of Chris in him than just his fingers.

After, they flop onto the floor, inspection papers crushed beneath them. Dennis sits with his back against the couch this time, Chris's head resting on his lap.

His fingertips card through Chris's hair, snagging strands between his knuckles before letting them fall free. His other hand rests on Chris's chest, absently thumbing the center of his breastbone.

Chris sprawls, using Dennis’s thigh as his pillow, one arm folded behind it for extra height. His free hand finds Dennis’s on his chest, then, his fingers trace each knuckle before sliding between them.

His chest rises and falls under their joined hands, eyes closed as he presses into the scritch of Dennis’s nails against his scalp.

"We should get up," Dennis says eventually. "Early meeting tomorrow. I gotta grab an Uber while they still have some on the streets around here."

"No… stay." Chris's hand leaves the back of his head to shoot up and wrap around Dennis’s wrist. His fingers tighten—just for a moment. Just enough to make Dennis’s heart skip a beat. "We can review the foundation specs."

It's a weak excuse. They both know it.

But they both pretend they don't.

And like so many nights before, Dennis ends up curled into Chris's side on the mattress, his head swimming, nose nuzzled into the warm curve above Chris’s ribs, drunk on his natural scent.

His toothbrush sits next to Chris's in a chipped mug.

His glasses rest neatly on Chris’s desk, perched in the same corner they’ve claimed every night he stays over.

His phone charges with a cable that shouldn’t even exist in Chris’s apartment—because Chris doesn’t own a device that uses it.

But admitting this is more than work means admitting it's more than physical. It means acknowledging how their professional partnership has become something else entirely.

Something neither of them planned for.

Something that feels like foundation work of a different kind.