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Dennis wakes at four AM to cold sheets and empty spaces. His hand finds nothing but wrinkled fabric where Chris should be. The apartment echoes with that particular silence of being alone—no shower running, no coffee maker humming, no Chris whistling remarkably on-key while he gets ready.

His phone lights up. Chris's morning text, same as every day this week:

Early supplier meeting baby. Miss your prissy face sooo much.

The site feels wrong without Chris's constant presence. Not that there's much happening—between permit rejections and missing materials, the crew mostly take long breaks and tap around on their phones. How many supplier meetings can one site manager have when nothing's moving forward?

When Chris does appear, it's always rushed. "Got that thing with the concrete guys," he'll say, or "Meeting about alternative bamboo sources." Quick kisses, faster exits. The excuses pile up while actual face time dwindles.

He's still Chris around others—cracking jokes with the crew, charming inspectors. But alone, something haunts his expression, pulling him into himself.

Saturday morning, Dennis is making coffee when Chris crowds him against the counter. The kiss is desperate, all teeth and tongue. Before Dennis can process what's happening, Chris spins him around, yanking his shorts down.

"Chris—" Dennis gasps as Chris pushes into him, rough and needy. The counter edge digs into his hands and hips but Chris's grip is iron, holding him there while he rams in deep.

It's over fast—Chris coming with a broken sound, collapsing against Dennis’s back. His forehead presses between Dennis’s shoulder blades, breath ragged like he's been running for miles.

Dennis twists around, cradling Chris's face. "Baby, what's wrong?"

Chris just shakes his head, wrapping around Dennis tight enough to hurt. They stay like that, Chris draped over him while Dennis strokes his arms, his back, anywhere he can reach.

That night, like every night lately, Chris prowls the apartment after Dennis "falls asleep." His cat-quiet steps thunder in Dennis’s ears. The mattress feels massive, arctic, without Chris's warmth beside him.

Chris's phone buzzes constantly. Each time, he startles like he's been shocked.

"Everything okay?" Dennis asks once, and Chris's "Fine!" comes too sharp, too fast. He softens it with a kiss to Dennis’s temple, but the damage is done.

Monday, Chris is gone before sunrise again. By noon, Dennis’s phone buzzes:

Feeling really sick. Heading home to rest.

Dennis calls immediately. Once, twice, three times. Nothing.

Maybe Chris has already taken something and passed out. Maybe he just needs sleep.

Maybe Dennis is getting better at lying to himself.

That night, Chris's call comes through raspy and weak. "Baby, I don't want you to catch anything. As much as this kills me, I think we need to stay in different apartments for a while."

"No, let me look after you."

"You need to handle these permits and the site if I'm not there to hold down the fort."

"But I'll miss you…"

"Baby, I miss you already. I know I haven't been the best company lately with everything that's going on, and now this. But I'll make it up to you, okay?"

Dennis’s own bed feels foreign that night, sheets too crisp, pillows too firm. He wakes up aching for Chris's morning kisses, the sleepy way Chris pulls him close, how Chris's hands always find him in the dark.

Beyond the physical need, beyond missing Chris's touch and taste and the way Chris makes him feel precious—he just misses Chris.

His calls go straight to voicemail for days. When he finally texts:

Coming to make sure you're still alive

Chris responds instantly:

Please don't, princess. Doctor says it's flu. Last thing you need right now.

After that, Chris sends regular updates:

Feeling better

Taking meds

Getting rest

Dennis tries again:

Let me bring you some food at least

Bzzz.

No! Can't risk you getting sick too. With all the permit drama, it would only set you back. I'm OK, promise .

And Dennis believes. He wants to believe.