Page 32

Dennis pokes his head into the shower on the morning of the investor gala—fully dressed and on the way out so he can go back to his apartment and get ready. "One kiss before I go!"

Chris yanks him forward by his shirt. Water soaks through the fabric instantly as their mouths meet. When Dennis tries to pull away, Chris chases his lips, making a small sound of protest that has Dennis’s heart doing cartwheels.

“Chris, baby, you’re getting me all wet!” Dennis laughs, and when Chris still doesn’t let go, he flicks him right on the dick.

Chris hisses in betrayal, finally releasing him, and Dennis makes his escape. Trust Chris to turn even rushed goodbyes into something that leaves him grinning like an idiot all the way to his Uber.

Back at his place, Dennis fusses with his silver cufflinks—last birthday's gift from his mother. His longer hair that he hasn’t gotten around to getting cut yet takes three attempts to get right, warming product between his palms before working it through with practiced movements. The whole process feels oddly formal now after months of Chris's fingers constantly messing it up.

His phone lights up with Chris's missed call, signaling he’s arrived and waiting, just as Dennis perfects the knot of his bowtie. His reflection grins back at him—his face does this thing now whenever Chris is involved, like Chris is some kind of happy pill he can't get enough of.

When Dennis gets downstairs, Chris is waiting in the lobby, hands tucked in his pockets as he looks out through the glass doors. He's wearing a black tuxedo that could only have come from a private Italian atelier—the kind of bespoke tailoring that takes multiple fittings to achieve. The fabric alone probably costs more than most people's monthly rent.

Together with Dennis’s bordeaux suit and black bowtie, they look like they've stepped straight off a runway.

That tux has Dennis wondering again about the collection gathering dust lined in the racks in Chris's apartment, alongside those Italian leather shoes that have no business on a construction site. "It's just from a past life," is all Chris ever says about them. But whatever Chris used to do, he clearly looked damn good doing it.

"I thought you said no tux," Dennis says, his footsteps echoing across marble.

At the sound of Dennis’s voice, Chris spins around.

His hair is swept back, every strand perfectly in place—worlds away from his usual tousled mess on site. He looks like the kind of man who stops traffic, who makes heads turn regardless of gender. The open collar without a bowtie is pure Chris though, that tiny rebellion that makes Dennis’s chest squeeze.

Chris's expression shifts as he takes in Dennis—surprise flickering across his features before his eyes go warm and dark, dimples appearing as his mouth curves into that smile that's just for Dennis.

Dennis lets his gaze trail down Chris's body and back up, his heart picking up speed. A blush creeps up his neck despite his best efforts to suppress it. How is it even fair for someone to look this handsome?

"Hmm?" Chris reaches out and Dennis’s hand finds his without thinking—like they've done this a thousand times, like their bodies know the choreography by heart. Chris tugs him closer for a kiss—soft press, quick sweep of tongue—then quirks an eyebrow. "Can't exactly show up in a tank top and construction boots, can I?"

"Could be hot." Dennis’s ears burn fiercely, and he pretends not to notice them, hoping Chris won't either.

"Not as hot as this." Chris spins on the heels of his perfectly polished shoes, giving Dennis the full view. "Custom Brioni deserves an audience, don't you think?"

Dennis swallows hard. Chris wears luxury like it's a second skin, so at home in formal wear it makes Dennis wonder if he really did moonlight as arm candy in that mysterious past life of his.

"Chris..." The words tumble out before he can stop them. "Were you an escort or something?"

Chris bursts out laughing, stepping closer as his arm snakes around Dennis’s waist. "Why, princess?" His eyes sparkle with mischief. "Are you going to be my sugar mommy?"

Before Dennis can respond, Chris leans in, trying to nuzzle into his neck. Dennis twists, dodging with a laugh of his own, torn between pushing Chris away and saving their suits from wrinkles. "Watch the hair!" he yelps.

The drive to the convention center passes in comfortable quiet. Dennis clutches his speech cards even though he's memorized every soulless word. Chris's hand rests warm on his thigh. His fingers tap along to the rhythm of Dennis’s speech as Dennis mutters under his breath, jumping in with gentle prompts whenever he stumbles.

Dennis steals little glances as Chris drives. His hand moves to Chris's, pinky bumping against Chris's fingers. Chris covers Dennis’s hand instantly, both of them spreading their fingers until they slot together, key meeting lock. Watching them work together like this, so in sync—it hits Dennis sometimes how perfectly they fit.

The gala unfolds exactly as Dennis predicted—a parade of wealth masquerading as a business function. Trophy wives drip diamonds while their husbands compare offshore accounts and vacation properties. Any mention of actual sustainable construction innovation gets lost beneath discussions of golf handicaps and market portfolios.

At least his father seems pleased as he works the room like the master player he is. He shifts between cultural contexts with calculated precision—a slight bow here, a firm handshake there, each interaction calibrated for maximum impact. The shrewd businessman fully in his element.

Chris stays close, playing his part with polite smiles and appropriate small talk when approached by the occasional site visitor. But tension radiates from him, visible only to Dennis who's learned to read every micro-expression.

This isn't his Chris—the natural charm and quick wit replaced by something more controlled, more guarded. He keeps glancing at the exit when he thinks no one's watching, and Dennis’s chest tightens knowing Chris is only here for him.

When it's time for the presentation, Dennis takes the podium. He recites words someone else wrote about innovation and progress, wrapping corporate strategy in buzzwords the Kim Industries board expects. The applause swells as he concludes with "Thank you all. Please enjoy the carefully curated dining experience prepared for this afternoon."

Chris claps at the side of the podium, having chosen to stand by Dennis instead of taking a seat. His smile radiates pride and something warmer that makes Dennis’s stomach flutter as he steps down.

They watch the crowd filter toward the grand ballroom. The gala runs perfectly controlled, perfectly choreographed—exactly how his father planned it.

Well, his dad clearly knows what he’s doing and Dennis has done his part. No one can complain now.

He reaches for Chris's wrist, turning it to pull back his sleeve and check the time. Soon this will all be over and things can go back to normal.

Chris leans close. "You did good, princess." He tips his chin up with a quick eyebrow raise at a site contractor passing by. "Keeping your subjects properly entertained."

Dennis inhales subtly. "You smell incredible."

"Thanks, baby. You smell..." Chris pauses. "Okay, I guess."

Dennis taps his shoe against Chris's because it will not do to kick him in public. "Don't be mean to me! I thought you would like this cologne—I wore it for you."

Chris's laugh rumbles low. "You know I like it when you smell like yourself." His voice drops further. "Even better when you smell like me."

Dennis looks away, color high on his cheeks, while Chris's low laughter warms the air between them. He can't wait to escape this stifling event—to whack Chris for being insufferable, tear off his clothes, and sit on his dick. Not necessarily in that order.

They enter the ballroom last, as hosts should, his parents falling into step beside them.

His mother pounces immediately, wrapping Dennis in a hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Darling, you were magnificent up there! So eloquent, so professional—though I wished you'd talked more about the design."

Her eyes light up when she spots Chris. "And Chris! How wonderful to see you here!" She links her arm through his, squeezing his hand. Chris returns the squeeze, all easy smiles with one hand in his pocket, looking like he walked straight off a magazine cover. "My, don't you clean up beautifully! More handsome than ever!"

His father's approach is characteristically direct. "Good work, son."

Wow, Dennis thinks, hell really has frozen over.

"Now, let's go greet everyone properly." His father gives Chris a cursory nod, the kind of perfunctory acknowledgment you'd offer a random event attendee, with no sign he even recognizes him as their site manager, before turning to the next person demanding his attention.

Mingling scatters them apart. A statuesque blonde monopolizes Dennis’s attention, her diamond bracelet catching light as she touches his arm. Her champagne sloshes precariously close to his sleeve while she laughs at his every word.

Dennis matches her energy perfectly—all charm and witty responses, exactly as he's been groomed to do since childhood. Over her shoulder, he spots Chris entertaining a group of construction executives, their laughter booming across the room. His lips curve up watching Chris work the room, and the blonde squeezes his forearm, misreading his smile as encouragement.

After what feels like endless variations of the same shallow conversation, a new figure cuts through the crowd. His manner is impeccable, his suit and shoes worth a small fortune. His handshake lands precise and firm as he beams at Dennis.

"Mr. Kim, what an extraordinary achievement! Your vision and creativity at such a young age are truly remarkable."

Dennis’s eyebrows lift, pleasantly surprised by the genuine interest in this stranger's voice.

"You're very kind. And to whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" The question nags at him—he knows everyone who matters in this industry, or at least knows of them. This isn't one of their investors or clients.

His eyes find Chris automatically across the room, only to discover Chris already watching them. Dennis offers a warm smile, trying to soften the hard set of Chris's jaw, but Chris's answering smile doesn't reach his eyes.

The stranger—powerfully built, silver-haired, looking like he stepped off a movie set—laughs warmly. "Ah, you're too new to this world to know me. I prefer to stay under the radar, avoid these kinds of functions when possible."

Mr. Lancaster, as he introduces himself, asks the kind of thoughtful questions about the project that make Dennis forget where they are. Finally, someone who actually understands construction! Their conversation draws a small crowd, including Dennis’s parents, though Mr. Lancaster eventually gets pulled away by others.

Chris materializes beside him, fingers finding Dennis’s littlest finger between their bodies where no one can see. He tugs gently. "Have to go, princess."

Dennis turns fully toward him, fighting down a pout that wouldn't be appropriate here. "Really? We haven't even gotten to the good champagne."

Chris's eyes drift to Dennis’s lips, his smile softening into something tender. "Materials called. Ryan needs diamond polishing discs for the terrazzo finish. If we don't get them today, we lose our weekend grinding window."

Dennis sighs. They were so close to escaping together. "Fine."

"Call me when you're done. I'll come get you." Chris's voice drops to barely a whisper. "Maybe bring one of those bottles with you." He winks, and Dennis has to bite back a giggle.

When Chris turns, he walks straight into Mr. Lancaster. They end up nose to nose, shoulders knocking hard.

"My apologies," Chris says. The words could chip ice.

"No harm done at all!" Mr. Lancaster responds smoothly.

They lock eyes, and Dennis’s skin prickles with warning. He'd recognize that tension anywhere—from their early days as enemies, through every site confrontation, to now when they spend every moment together. His attunement to Chris's moods has only sharpened with time. Right now, every instinct screams that Chris might actually tear Mr. Lancaster’s expensive suit off him, piece by piece.

Dennis steps between them.

"Mr. Lancaster, allow me to introduce Chris, our site manager." His hand finds Chris's elbow.

"A pleasure to meet you, Chris...?" Mr. Lancaster tilts forward slightly, waiting for a last name.

"Just Chris," he bites out through clenched teeth.

"Ah! Well, delighted to meet you, Just Chris." Mr. Lancaster's tone stays pleasant, either missing or choosing to ignore the hostility.

"Likewise." Chris's voice could frost champagne. "If you'll excuse me."

He gives Dennis a tiny nod before striding away, his usual easy movement replaced by something coiled and lethal. His hands clench at his sides, knuckles bone-white against his flawlessly tailored pants.

Dennis watches him go, his thoughts scattered. In all their months together, he's never seen Chris so... cold.

That was certainly... odd.

"I apologize, Mr. Lancaster. I'm not sure what that was about." Dennis can't quite keep the confusion from his voice.

"Please, think nothing of it, Mr. Kim." His smile remains perfectly cordial. "I'm sure he had his reasons."