Page 36

Five nights in his own apartment have stretched endlessly.

Dennis is up before dawn, going through motions. Shower. Clothes. Coffee. Sleep's been impossible anyway.

His phone shows a missed call from Chris. Then a message:

Downstairs to pick you up for work, Miss you like crazy

His heartbeat kicks up but he forces his movements to stay measured. Part of him wants to sprint down—it's been forever —while another part remembers Chris has been protecting him from sickness and disease, not avoiding him on purpose.

Still, Dennis is a little mad at him. The unreasonable feeling simmers beneath his skin even as his fingers shake while buttoning his shirt.

Through the glass doors, he spots Chris outside Oakview Heights, hands in his pockets as he studies the building's facade. Dennis pushes through the door.

The new sunrise hits Chris's cheekbones just right, turning his skin golden as he turns. That smile breaks across his face—the one that makes Dennis forget how to inhale, that turns his brain to static, that makes everything else disappear.

Chris pulls him in without a word. Their lips meet and Dennis drowns in it, every emotion crashing through him at once—relief, joy, hurt, want, love.

"I missed you, you asshole," Dennis whispers against Chris's mouth.

Chris laughs softly, tucking Dennis’s hair behind his ear. "Missed you too princess, more than you'll ever know."

At the site, Dennis feels on top of the world until Jason pipes up: "Chris, how'd you fix the permit situation?"

"Called in some favors with city hall." Chris waves it off.

Jealousy flares hot and irrational in Dennis’s chest. He knows it's stupid—Chris has been sick, sounding like death warmed over on the phone, stuffy and miserable—but after days of silence, he can't help it. "What kind of favors do people owe you?" The words come out snippier than intended.

"Don't worry princess, the sexual favors are only for you." Chris winks.

They can't keep their eyes off each other all day. Lunch together feels like coming home. They skip dinner and unpaid overtime, heading straight to Chris’s apartment.

Half-finished medicine bottles line the counter but there's no other evidence of illness—no takeout containers, no tissues, nothing.

Between kisses and fumbled clothes, Dennis manages: "Did you even eat while you were sick? I should've brought you food."

The apartment feels unlived in.

"Just wanted everything clean for you coming back." Chris tugs him toward the mattress.

That night, Chris takes him slow and deep, never breaking eye contact. Every thrust comes with whispered endearments—"princess, darling, my baby"—until Dennis falls apart again and again.

Chris gives him everything. Leaves him limp and satisfied and cherished.

The next few days slip back to normal.

One morning after they wake at three AM, Chris slides into Dennis slow and lazy. They stay joined for what feels like hours, barely moving, just feeling each other in the dark.

At five AM, Chris eases out of bed with practiced stealth—movements too smooth for this to be the first time he's snuck away while Dennis sleeps.

"Site inspection?" Dennis mumbles into the pillow, half-conscious.

"Go back to sleep, princess." Chris's lips brush his temple. "I'll bring coffee later."

Things are okay now. They're more than okay. So Dennis drifts off to Chris's keys jangling, the quiet click of the door.

The coffee never comes.

Around ten, Jason bursts into Dennis’s office waving his phone. "Your father wants to see you both. Now."

"Both?"

"You and Chris." Jason shifts his weight. "Have you heard from him today?"

Dennis’s fingers tighten on his tablet. "He had an early inspection."

"Right." Jason studies his shoes. "Well, he's not answering his phone, and your dad doesn't like to be kept waiting..."

Dennis tries Chris's number three times before calling his father. "We'll come tomorrow."

"Of course you will," his father's voice drips acid. "When your site manager decides to grace us with his presence. This is exactly the kind of unprofessionalism I've come to expect from your... staffing choices."

The words hit like slaps but Dennis swallows his response. Where the fuck is Chris?

Near closing, Chris appears in Dennis’s doorway. Dark circles shadow his eyes, his face drawn—like someone who hasn’t seen a bed in days, despite leaving the apartment before dawn.

"Where the hell were you?" Dennis barely contains his anxiety about tomorrow's meeting, knowing how his father gets.

"Phone's fucked up."

Right on cue, Chris's phone rings. He jumps.

"Seems to be working just fine," Dennis says dryly.

"It's these fucking telemarketers calling at all hours." Chris's voice rises. "Short of changing my number again—" He cuts off, jaw tight.

Dennis isn’t sure if he's angry at the supposed telemarketers or at being caught in the lie.

"We have a meeting tomorrow with my father."

Chris goes still. "I'm not going."

"We have to."

"Pulling rank?"

"My dad is."

"Fine. But I'm not wearing a tie."

"Wouldn't expect you to." The words come out harder than Dennis intends, less fond exasperation at Chris's rebellious streak and more like bitter resignation at his perpetual difficulty.

That night, they barely speak. No kisses, no touches. Chris stares at nothing while Dennis watches his back.

Finally, Dennis curls himself over Chris, arm sliding around his waist.

Like always, Chris's fingers find his, intertwining them. A deep sigh escapes him as his muscles unwind against Dennis’s chest.

Dennis presses his lips to Chris's shoulder. Chris squeezes his hand.

What's Chris dealing with that he can't share? More importantly, why won't he?

Morning brings familiar emptiness when Dennis wakes alone, now mixed with dread. He paces his office, waiting for Chris to show for their meeting.

When Chris arrives, his usual tank top has been swapped for a proper button-down shirt, though true to his word, no tie.

"Ready?" Chris's voice sounds hollow, though he manages a small smile despite the dark circles deepening under his eyes.

The drive downtown is silent. Chris's fingers drum the steering wheel, his expression stormy as he stares ahead. Dennis’s hands rest alone on his own thighs where Chris's palm usually warms them.

The elevator climbs endlessly. Chris's shoulders stay rigid, hands buried in his pockets. When Dennis’s hand brushes his, he shifts away. Something in Dennis’s chest cracks at the deliberate distance.

"Nervous?" Dennis tries for lightness.

Chris's teeth grind. "Let's get this over with."

The moment they enter his father's office, Chris transforms—same mask from the gala. Every muscle coiled like he's preparing for impact.

Dennis’s father stands at his window, reading glasses perched on his nose as he studies a document. "Sit."

No greeting. No pleasantries. Pure ice in his voice.

He settles opposite them, removing his glasses and laying the paper down. "Five delayed permits, three rejections, and one missing truck." He levels that CEO stare that makes board members squirm. "What's next?"

"The permits were properly filed," Dennis starts. "We followed every—"

"That's no excuse. One permit, I can accept. But five in two weeks?"

Dennis blinks. His father's right—this is unprecedented.

His attention shifts to Chris, who sits unnaturally still. "And you—" He glances at the papers. "Mr. Chris…Rhodes? Is Chris short for something?"

"Just Chris."

"Ah, Just Chris." His father's lip curls. "How convenient, Christopher ."

Chris stiffens. Dennis’s gaze bounces between them, confusion mounting.

"Before this project you were working with Westbrook Engineering here as their structural lead?"

"Yes."

The revelation hits Dennis—Chris is an engineer? Well, of course—it explains his expertise, but adds to the growing list of questions, especially as his father continues:

"And before that? In Seattle?"

Chris's fingers dig into his thighs, tendons standing out in his neck.

Dennis’s stomach drops—that same instinctive warning he felt when Chris faced Mr. Lancaster at the gala. Like a match about to strike.

"Sir," Dennis cuts in, using formal Korean honorifics despite the conversation being in English. "Is there a point to this meeting? We have urgent matters—"

"I just want to know where your site manager picked up these bad habits, since he's not even completing his working hours during a time like this, Architect Kim ." His father's voice carries that particular Korean formality that turns Dennis’s title into a weapon.

Shit. The formal address means his father is truly angry.

"He—" Dennis starts, but Chris cuts him off.

"I had a severe case of flu, Sir. I've been running to the clinic because I haven't felt well. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"That's no excuse, Mr. Just Chris. Miss work again and you're fired. You understand?"

"Dad—Sir, wait—"

His father turns his back. "That is all."

Chris stands, turns, and leaves. Gone before Dennis can even process what happened. By the time Dennis reaches the door, the hallway is empty.

"As for you, Architect Kim." His father's voice freezes him. "I'm disappointed. I thought your judgment was better." The dismissal rings clear. "Close the door as you leave."

Dennis rushes to the elevator without a word, hoping to catch Chris.

They stand in suffocating silence as the elevator descends. At the fifth floor, Dennis breaks:

"He's right, you know?"

"Don't."

Dennis inhales sharply and hits the emergency stop, turning to face Chris. "Trust me, I hate to agree with my dad, way more than you do, but he's right. The project is crumbling down, I don't know why or how to stop it, and you—you're either MIA or bringing donuts or just—different."

"And what do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?"

"I want you to explain."

Chris spins around, gripping the handrail, head hanging between his shoulders.

"Stop avoiding me, Chris." Dennis steps closer, hand finding Chris's shoulder. "Please."

"Drop it, Dennis! Alright?"

Dennis recoils, eyes wide.

This isn't his Chris—he's never seen this side, never imagined it existed. But pride rises to meet anger.

"Fine." He releases the emergency stop.

"Denny—" Chris sighs, fingers brushing Dennis’s hand. Dennis pulls away, arms crossing.

"Sorry..."

"Save it."

The drive back is stone silent.

Dennis’s thoughts spiral as he works. What was that meeting really about? His father never deals directly with site managers—that's what project managers are for. Yet he'd called them in together, interrogated Chris despite knowing the incidents were beyond their control. Chris had even fixed the last round of permit issues when it was far outside his job scope.

None of it adds up. His father's barking up the wrong tree—but his father's too calculating for random mistakes. Every one of his moves has a purpose.

Dennis’s fury mingles with confusion, a lump forming in his throat. He wants to fight his father over this, remind him who's actually leading the project. But his father's smart—too smart for this to be a simple misunderstanding.

The questions pile up. And now this rift with Chris—Chris who's always been his rock. His go-to guy. His home .

Is this how it ends? Whatever "this" is between them?

The thought of losing it makes him physically ill.

Dennis finds Chris in the site office later, bent over blueprints like nothing happened. His shoulders stay rigid while his phone lights up repeatedly. Each message gets dismissed with increasing agitation.

"Want to talk about it?" Dennis tries, because beneath his own hurt, he needs to understand what's eating at Chris.

"Nothing to talk about." Chris doesn't look up. "Your father made himself clear."

"Hey." Dennis reaches for him, but Chris shifts away again. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing's going on." Chris finally meets his eyes, something unreadable flickering across his face before disappearing. "I—I'm sorry about before, Dennis, really."

Not princess, not baby, just Dennis.

Chris exhales hard, fingers raking through his hair. "Just need to focus on work."

That night, they barely make it past the front door.

The cold floor bites into Dennis’s back as Chris pushes into him—they couldn't wait for the bed, couldn't even make it to the couch.

Chris fucks him harder than usual, rougher, teeth marring every inch of skin he can reach.

Dennis’s knees scrape against peeling hardwood when Chris flips him around, trembling as he’s pounded into deeper. Chris screws into him like he wants to connect them permanently.

Dennis’s ass will be sore for days, bruises blooming where Chris's fingers dig into his hips and thighs, but Dennis takes it all. Takes everything Chris gives him. Lets Chris mark him, claim him, pour everything he can't explain into Dennis’s willing body—whatever it is he can't say with words. Until they’re panting and gasping, chests heaving in sync.

Their foreheads press together while Dennis’s fingers card through Chris’s sweaty hair, failing to soothe whatever storm rages beneath.

Then Chris's phone buzzes.

This time when he gets up, Dennis follows.

He finds Chris on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear. "I know what I'm doing... Just give me more time."

"Who was that?"

Chris spins around, nearly dropping his phone. "Work stuff." His smile looks wrong. "Come shower?"

Dennis knows it's not work stuff.

But despite the lies, the excuses, the strange tension radiating off Chris in waves, Dennis lets those familiar hands pull him close. Lets Chris's touch silence the questions burning his tongue.

Later, pretending to sleep, Dennis watches Chris pace, phone gripped like an anchor.

The cracks keep spreading—through every dodged question, unexplained absence, every moment Chris seems to drift further even when he's right there.

Something's coming. Dennis just doesn't know what.

Yet.