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They stop speaking entirely. Even site issues get relayed through Jason or random crew members. It grates on Dennis’s last nerve.

After two months of rejections, Dennis can't sit idle anymore. Their usual contacts at city hall dodge their calls, vanish for those never-ending "meetings," and send vague emails about being unavailable. They need to find an actual human to talk to.

They wait hours in plastic chairs until a junior clerk waves them in. His tie is crooked, his desk overflowing with papers he clearly doesn't understand.

"The ventilation requirements clearly state—" Dennis spreads their documentation.

"If it's rejected, it's rejected." The clerk doesn't look up from his computer.

"But the central garden design addresses—" Jason tries.

"Look," the clerk drones, "I don't make the rules."

"Then let us speak to someone who does," Dennis says.

"Everyone's in meetings."

"They've been 'in meetings' for two months," Jason's voice rises.

The clerk's phone rings. "Sorry, have to take this. Reschedule at the front desk."

Outside, Dennis rubs his temples. "Talk to Legal, see what options we have."

"What about you?"

"Going to comb through everything again. There has to be something we missed."

Jason squeezes his shoulder and heads off.

Dennis turns—and freezes.

Across the street stands Chris with a woman in typical city hall attire: pencil skirt, blazer, heels clicking on concrete. She passes him an envelope.

Then, she holds his hand with both of hers.

One hand stays on top of his. She squeezes. Strokes his knuckles.

Chris's smile—that soft one Dennis hasn't seen in weeks—makes bile rise in his throat.

Who is she?

What's in that envelope?

Why are they meeting in secret?

How long has this been happening?

The questions multiply like cancer cells.

Logic screams that it's probably work-related—she's dressed for the office, they're meeting in broad daylight.

But his mind spirals.

Maybe she takes Chris home after these meetings. Maybe they have dinner. Maybe Chris has been seeing her—or someone else—this whole time.

Chris somehow thinks he isn’t gay. All Dennis knows is that this would make sense then, wouldn’t it?

All he knows is whatever they had has evaporated like morning dew.

He storms back to site, fury building with each step. The office feels toxic now—Chris could walk in any moment. He needs to make sure he’s not around if that happens.

Dennis starts throwing files into boxes. His hands shake too violently to call an Uber.

Ryan's working nearby, supervising the terrazzo grinding. His tall frame bent over the machinery, blonde hair catching the sun.

"Ryan!" Dennis’s voice cracks. "Need a ride."

The drive home is silent. Ryan keeps glancing at him with those striking blue eyes, lips pressed into a severe line that transforms his usually bright face, but says nothing.

"Thanks for this."

"Anytime, boss."

"Tell everyone to work fast. We need progress before another permit delay. And if anyone comes looking around—anyone—call me first. No one enters without me there."

"Got it. Just... need you to unblock me first."

"What?"

"You know, from when Chris—"

"Right." Dennis thrusts his phone at Ryan. "Find your number."

"Ah, that’s the one. The one on top of the message, 'Hey, sweet cheeks, can I have a taste of your—”

Dennis's glare could burn holes in concrete.

Ryan swallows the rest, unblocks himself with record speed, and retreats to his truck.

In his home office, Dennis spreads everything out. Dates. Descriptions. Permits. Rejections. Blueprints. He marks inconsistencies in violent yellow—misspelled words, altered drawings, subtle changes that shouldn't exist.

Then he finds it.

A blueprint only accessible through his private server. The one in his apartment. The one only Chris knew about.

His development blueprint—the one with all his proprietary calculations, the one showing exactly how his innovative ventilation system works. These details never left his private server. The city hall submissions contained only the basic specs, stripped of anything that could reveal his breakthrough designs.

But the rejected permits cite problems that could only be created by someone who'd seen these exact calculations. Tiny changes in the submitted designs, precise enough to trigger automatic rejections while looking like honest mistakes. Changes only possible if you knew where to hit.

His stomach turns as connections form. The late nights. The mysterious calls. The perfectly timed permit rejections. The woman with the envelope.

A structural engineer masquerading as a site manager.

Chris's touches. Chris's lies. Chris's secrets. Chris's deception.

Everything—every single thread—leads back to Chris.

Dennis stares at his evidence, chest cracking open as betrayal rewrites every memory.