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Monday morning hits different with stubble burn on your thighs and muscle aches in places you didn't know could ache. Dennis tries not to grin like an idiot while crossing the construction site, but after a whole weekend tangled in Chris's sheets, his body still hums with satisfaction.

The sun catches the bamboo supports just right, making them almost sparkle in the early light. His vision is working. His dream is real. And maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to want other things too.

"Incoming!" Chris's voice carries across the site. He appears with Dennis’s regular coffee in one hand, some violently pink smoothie in the other. His tank top rides up as he stretches, showing marks Dennis definitely remembers leaving.

Dennis’s entire face lights up before he catches himself—he's being way too obvious. Chris had left the apartment while it was still dark this morning and wasn't on site when Dennis arrived. As ridiculous as it feels, he'd missed him. Dennis schools his expression into what he hopes passes for Professional Boss Face.

"You're late," Dennis says, knowing full well Chris started work extra early, but accepts the coffee anyway. Being a little mean won’t hurt to keep Chris on his toes!

"Hmm, whose fault is that?" Chris leans in close, pretending to examine something on Dennis’s collar while obviously breathing him in. "Someone kept me up all night."

"Pretty sure that was your idea." Dennis takes a sip to hide his smile. "All three times."

"Four." Chris winks. "But who's counting?"

Their good mood evaporates the second they enter the office.

Jason stands there, rejected permit in hand, eyes narrowed as he meets Dennis’s gaze.

"What's this?" Dennis sets down his coffee and moves next to Jason to examine the document.

"The permit we filed last week, it's back. All rejected."

"What?" Dennis squints at the document. Weird. This never happens—they have connections everywhere, procedures in place, relationships built over years. It's basic routine at this point.

"I swear I've been staring at this thing for like twenty minutes and I still can't figure out what we supposedly screwed up," Jason throws his hands up. "Like, did they even read it?"

"Let me see." Chris steps closer, taking the paper. His eyes scan the lines once, twice, three times, brow furrowing deeper with each pass. He taps the edge of the paper against his palm. "Must've been a typo. We'll need to file it again."

"Ugh, that's gonna take forever at city hall." Jason flops into his chair. "And your dad wants those renders cooked, like, yesterday."

"Don't stress, Jae. I'll handle city hall," Dennis says.

"Just don't forget Mary's vanilla cookies!"

"Yes, mother."

Dennis turns to Chris. "I'll be back later, okay? Keep the crew on track and see what else needs attention." He notices Chris's expression tighten. "Don't worry, this is totally fixable."

"Yeah," Chris says slowly. "These things happen."

Except it keeps happening.

Three days later, another rejection lands on Dennis’s desk—different reason, same oddly formal tone. Before he can process that, Jason bursts in waving his phone.

"The bamboo truck's gone MIA," Jason announces. "Driver's not picking up, GPS tracker's dead, nothing."

"Could be selling it off somewhere else," one of the crew suggests, scratching his head. "Happens more than you'd think. Materials fetch good money on the black market."

"This is perfect. Just perfect." Dennis drops his head into his hands, staring at the progress photos due for investors. The crew mills around below his window, some playing cards while others reorganize tools they've already organized twice today. Without permits or materials, they're stuck.

If this drags on much longer, they'll start looking elsewhere. Dennis has seen enough crews poached to know idle hands lead to wandering eyes. The last thing they need is more electrical team drama.

His phone buzzes. Dad.

"Have you located the truck yet?" His father's tone could strip paint.

"We're working on it."

“Well, work on it faster. CranePoint Capital is on the phone right now expecting a full progress report. I cannot tell them my son lost an entire shipment.”

“Then lie.” Dennis massages the bridge of his nose, too stressed to care.

“Dennis Ki—”

“I'm handling it, okay? I'll have to call you back.”

That night over dinner, Chris slides his prawns onto Dennis’s plate while they dissect everything. Dennis scoots the dumplings from his side of the table to Chris's.

"Could be competition," Chris suggests, pushing his rice around. "Though sabotaging permits is new. Usually they just undercut bids."

Dennis nibbles on a prawn—his absolute favorite—even though his stomach's too knotted to enjoy them.

"But why now? We're halfway through." Dennis collects and dumps Chris's broccoli onto his own plate, earning a grateful grin. "And who'd want to mess with experimental sustainable construction anyway?"

"Someone who sees it as a threat?" Chris suggests as Dennis divides their dessert, making Chris's portion dwarf his own. "Or someone with old grudges? This industry's built on them."

A week crawls by. The truck finally appears—minus most of its cargo. Two more permits get rejected. Then a "Community Action Committee" no one's ever heard of files noise complaints.

By the next dinner, Dennis is too drained to even pretend to eat. He rambles through theories while Chris just watches, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.

Friday finds Dennis scanning the site for Chris, trying to look casual about it.

Jason's contacts at city hall keep stonewalling them with "We're looking into it." His father's breathing fire. Investor concerns are multiplying like rabbits.

He needs his rock right now.

"Anyone seen Chris?" he asks the nearest worker.

The foreman tugs off his hardhat, scratching his head. "Caught him for maybe five minutes this morning? Hey guys—any of you seen the boss man?" He turns to the crew, getting only confused shrugs in response.

Dennis has sent texts. Called. Nothing but silence

By two, Chris strolls in like it's nothing. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, hair only half-styled, tank top riding up as he juggles boxes of donuts and a bag of Cokes.

"Food break!" he calls to the crew.

A low whistle cuts through the air followed by shuffling feet as guys emerge from various corners of the site.

"Chris!" Dennis calls from the trailer door.

The crew exchanges looks, someone muttering "Boss is in trouble" as they scatter with their snacks.

Chris climbs the steps into their makeshift common room, closing the door behind them. He moves to kiss Dennis but gets a palm to his chest instead.

"What?"

" What? That's all you have to say?"

"Had supplier meetings off site, princess. I'm sorry."

"Really? Because I called. Multiple times. Straight to voicemail."

"I'll make up the hours next week." Chris tries for another kiss but Dennis keeps his distance until Chris's expression falls. "Come on..."

Dennis’s anger deflates seeing Chris's exhausted face. Between the site chaos and whatever's eating at Chris, they're all stretched thin. "Just... don't disappear on me like that."

Chris drops a quick kiss on his cheek. "Never, princess."

All day, Dennis watches Chris work. Something's off—Chris keeps checking his phone, missing questions, losing focus mid-conversation.

Where Chris normally bursts into Dennis’s office after site duties so they can wrap up together and grab dinner, there's only a text:

Meeting you at home baby. Supplier emergency.

When Dennis gets home, Chris shows up thirty minutes later with containers of xiao long bao from that dim sum place Dennis loves. His shoulders drop at the gesture—Chris is still thinking of him.

At home, they push away the mess clouding their minds—rejected permits, missing trucks, endless investor calls. When Chris pulls him close, kisses him deep, holds him tight against his chest, Dennis knows Chris is still here with him, still his.

Later, kneeling over Chris's hips and taking him deep, Dennis tries to lose himself in the familiar stretch, the perfect angle. Chris absolutely loves it when Dennis rides him.

But Chris's phone buzzes and his eyes drift. The connection breaks.

Dennis cups his face, drawing it back. "Hey. Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here." Chris whispers, stroking the inside of Dennis’s wrist with his thumb. But his eyes are distant, glazed with thoughts he won't share.

That night, Dennis lies awake listening to Chris pace on the balcony, voice low as he talks on the phone. Chris deserves his privacy—Dennis has never been the type to pry, doesn't want to start now.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

And that's just the beginning of the fall.