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Dennis avoids Chris for the rest of the week.

When Chris plants a small kiss on the back of his head before sneaking out each morning, Dennis lies still, wondering if Chris even realizes he's awake. Maybe Chris is too consumed by whatever's tearing them apart to notice.

When Chris needs to be "out late somewhere", Dennis doesn't even expect to know about it anymore.

They'd built something that felt unshakeable, yet in a few short weeks, they're like strangers.

He can't face Chris.

Part of him waits for Chris to talk first. To apologize and mean it this time. To prove "I'll make it up to you" isn't another lie piled onto that growing mountain between them.

Dennis is tired of chasing after him.

Chris keeps his distance too. He shows up to the site on time after Dennis's father's warning, but vanishes at five sharp.

By Friday night, Chris finally remembers Dennis exists, sending a midnight text asking where he is. Dennis switches off his bedroom light in his own apartment and doesn't reply.

Another Monday brings fresh headaches.

Dennis and Jason hover over blueprints and permit applications in Dennis's office, examining every detail with surgical precision.

"Check the load calculations again?" Dennis squints at page six.

"Third time." Jason rubs his eyes. "We can't afford another setback."

"If we mess up another one, Dad's going to kill me."

"He's going to kill ME," Jason groans. "Then tell MY dad we're incompetent. Then my dad will kill me and I'll be doubly dead."

"I'm sorry, Jae."

Jason shakes his head. "It's not your fault and you know it. Something's fucked up here."

That week drowns in quadruple-checking applications, watching more crew members resign with tight lips and airtight secrets—the poaching virus spreading from electrical to HVAC and structural teams.

Between city hall drama and equipment "malfunctions" that seem too coincidental, Dennis can't focus on actual architectural supervision or material specifications. Not that he'll have investors to show progress to at this rate.

Near midday, Chris appears for the first time that week with fresh bad news. "Jerry just quit."

"What?" Dennis and Jason chorus.

"When?"

"Just now. Loading his truck."

Jason bolts for the stairs, footsteps thundering. "Jerry! Jerry, hold up man!"

Dennis collapses in his chair, heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. A sound between a groan and a sigh escapes him.

"I don't get it..." It's all he can manage. Because he really doesn't.

Chris approaches the desk, studying the permits branded with red "REJECTED" stamps and the fresh blueprints.

He drops to his knees, turning the chair until he's between Dennis's legs. His hands slide up and down Dennis's thighs.

Dennis won't look at him but doesn't stop him either. How can he? He's still furious, but he's craved Chris's touch—this gentleness he'd forgotten Chris possessed.

Chris nuzzles into Dennis's crotch, breathing deep like he wants to fill his lungs with him. His eyebrows draw together, something pleading in his expression.

"Stop." Dennis's fingers lace into Chris's hair.

Chris looks up and Dennis knows he's transparent—days of avoiding Chris have left him raw, exposed. He knows Chris can see, clear as day, that Dennis is weak for him.

Chris grabs his elbows, pulling him down for a kiss.

Dennis responds despite himself. Even this small tenderness is better than nothing, though it makes him feel both angry and pathetic.

Their fingers fumble with each other's belts, neither breaking the kiss.

"This is a bad idea," Dennis mumbles against Chris's mouth.

"Everything's a bad idea lately." Chris pulls him up, turns him around, bends him over the desk. "Want me to stop?"

"Yes," Dennis whispers without conviction as his head tips back, chasing Chris's touch.

Chris's fingers trail down his spine and Dennis gasps, "No."

Chris's palm spreads him open and Dennis breathes, "Maybe."

When Chris's lips burrow between his cheeks and his tongue swipes along his taint, suckling the strip like he’s starving—Dennis melts. "Mmmm no, definitely not."

"I've been thinking about you all day, princess."

"Don't call me that." The pet name stings—he hasn't felt like Chris's princess in too long.

"Sorry, god—sorry." Chris's forehead drops to Dennis's thigh. "'m sorry, Denny."

"You've been apologizing a lot."

"And I mean it every time."

Dennis twists around, searching for Chris's eyes but finding nothing. The questions die in his throat. He turns back. "Just... just fuck me, alright?"

Chris drives into him like he's trying to bury his secrets inside Dennis's body. His hips wham, brutal and punishing, each thrust jolting the desk. Dennis's soft gasps turn to fractured cries—even the sting of being split open can't compare to everything else ripping their bond to shreds.

The desk rattles beneath them until Chris bites down hard on his neck, spilling deep. His hand finds Dennis's cock, stripping it efficiently until Dennis spills into his palm, feeling hollow and used.

Every touch with Chris leaves new scars lately. When did this become them?

They're still catching their breath when Chris's phone rings.

Chris yanks out so fast Dennis hisses. "Shit, I'm—"

"Sorry?" Dennis laughs bitterly, yanking up his pants with icy precision. "Go."

Chris freezes—hair wild, cum staining his pants where he'd wiped Dennis's release, belt hanging open. His phone buzzes in one hand while the other reaches for Dennis. His fingers brush Dennis's shoulder but Dennis jerks away, disgusted that he's become nothing but a ready hole for someone who barely looks at him anymore.

The love was always one sided.

"Just go."

The office door clicks shut. Dennis turns to face scattered permits on the floor, swept from his desk during their vacant, mechanical fucking. The application dates don't align with the rejection stamps.

Nothing makes sense anymore.