Page 4

Two days after the inspector incident, Dennis is tapping away at his tablet in the site office when his phone starts buzzing.

Again.

He swipes away three messages from his father without reading them, the notifications piling up like unwanted guests. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. The buzzing grows more insistent, the vibrations rattling against the table.

His father's voice echoes from their last call: "The investors expect perfection. The Kim name demands perfection. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"For fuck's sake," he mutters, his fingers tightening around the stylus.

"Language," Chris drawls from the doorway, his voice smooth as honey. "What would daddy dearest say?"

Dennis stiffens, shoulders tensing under his shirt. When he looks up, Chris is leaning against the doorframe.

His arms are crossed, legs crossed too with the toe of his work boot pressed to the industrial carpet. Muscles strain against his T-shirt, dark hair curling at his temples from sweat.

He must've actually been working for once, the sheen on his skin proof of the day's labor.

"Rough day, princess?" Chris's smirk widens, like he can smell weakness. "Daddy still not appreciating your artistic vision?"

He strolls in without waiting for an answer, his boots heavy on the floor.

A new stack of papers, creased down the middle from Chris's back pocket, appears on Dennis's desk.

"Permit modifications," Chris says leaning in. He tap-taps on it with a finger, thumb hooked through his belt loop. "Need your signature. You know, the fancy one daddy's lawyers taught you."

"Haven't you got some scaffolding to fall off from?" Dennis snips.

"Nah." He drops into the chair across from Dennis, the metal creaking under his weight. Puts his boots up on the edge of Dennis’s desk, legs crossed. The soles leave marks on the pristine plastic.

Designer boots, Dennis notices, the realization edging out the need to stab Chris with a fountain pen. Probably costs more than his crew makes in a week.

Snort. The hypocrisy of Chris's working-class hero act should be funny, except Dennis is too filled with hatred to laugh.

"Still got a few hours left on my shift. Thought I'd check on our resident genius. Make sure you haven't invented any new ways to complicate my life."

"That's nice,” Dennis says as mildly as he can, which isn't very. “Why don’t you go use them somewhere else." He turns back to his tablet, the screen glaring in the dim light of the office.

Another message from his father flashes: The board expects updates. Where are they?

"Don't worry, princess,” he hears, while his dad’s message pounds in the back of his neck. “I'm sure daddy will find you another project to play with when this one succeeds despite you."

Dennis’s jaw bites down on its own. Between Chris and his dad, that scaffolding’s looking real good right now.

"Oh, by the way," Chris adds, "had to adjust your sustainability calculations again. Turns out theoretical models don't account for actual material behavior. But you'd know that if you had ever actually built anything instead of just drawing pretty pictures."

Dennis can feel it—the heat racing up his spine, overtaking his skin, prickling every nerve.

Of fucking course he’s making mistakes—hard not to when some douchebag spends all day hovering like a vulture waiting for him to screw up. Flustering him. Making Dennis see red so he can’t fucking focus.

He’s always had a temper.

His mom had shipped him off to martial arts classes to practice self-control. The instructors promised he could compete if he managed it.

Now, with a fourth-degree black belt in Taekwondo and a shelf full of MMA trophies crowding his childhood room, he’d mastered keeping it in check.

It’s something he’s proud of, proof that he’s better than this.

And he can prove it again, right here.

"Get out," Dennis says, voice level.

"What's wrong, princess?

"You can't just—"

"Can't what? Do your job better than you?" Chris stretches, arms over his head, fitted T-shirt riding up to show a strip of tanned skin. Perfectly casual about undermining Dennis’s authority

Dennis forces his eyes away. Absolutely does not look. He has better things to do than ogle detestable assholes who make his life hell, no matter how badly their jeans fit and how tight their shirts cling.

Unprofessional asshat. It’s not like Dennis wouldn’t have rock-hard abs like that if all he did was make his superior’s life hell and hang out at the gym all damn day instead of doing any fucking work.

Except Chris does work, and does it well , a traitorous thought whispers in his mind’s ear before he can silence it.

"About those beams," Chris says, his tone casual.

"What about them?" Dennis keeps his eyes on his tablet, the numbers blurring together.

"We can't expose them until the electrical's done."

"What?" Dennis’s head whips up in surprise, then his brows furrow, mad. "Why wasn't this flagged earlier?"

"Because someone," Chris leans in closer, his eyes narrowing, "changed the specs without telling the electrical team."

"I did not—" Dennis stops, his protest dying on his lips. He grabs his tablet, his fingers flying over the screen as he scrolls through revision notes.

Oh.

Shit.

"See?" Chris leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Not so perfect after all, are we, princess?"

"Don't call me that." Dennis scowls. Gah! He hates this guy with a passion.

"What? Princess?" Chris's dimples appear, the sight somehow maddening. "But it suits you so well. All pristine and proper in your fancy clothes—"

"These are standard site wear!"

"—ordering everyone around from your little office—"

"This is literally my job!"

"—looking down that perfect nose at us common folk."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?" Chris's eyes gleam. "Trust fund baby plays at being an architect, thinks sustainable design will make daddy proud—"

"I earned my place here!"

"Sure you did." Chris's laugh is cruel. "That's why you need me to fix every calculation, adjust every spec, make your pretty dreams actually work in the real world."

"At least I have dreams," Dennis snaps. "What's your excuse? Playing working class hero while wearing..." He squints at Chris's boots. Looks up at Chris. Raises an eyebrow. "Damn bro, is that Gucci?"

Something flashes across Chris's face. Gone before Dennis can read it.

Hit a nerve, eh? Dennis smirks. Doesn’t feel so bad now about letting himself go, just a bit.

"Aww, princess knows his designer labels." Chris's smile turns mean. "Did daddy teach you that during your weekly shopping sprees?"

"Better than whatever this act is." Dennis gestures at Chris's perfectly distressed work clothes. "How much did you pay to look 'authentic'?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Chris leans closer. "Been checking out my clothes, have you? Or is it the man wearing them?"

The insinuation makes Dennis’s face heat. Not because it's true. Of course fucking not. As if Dennis would—as far as he knows, he doesn’t even like dudes. But he’d sure as hell sooner kiss a man than be in the same room as Chris because the stupid motherfucker is enjoying watching him squirm way too much.

"You think you're so special," Chris continues. "The visionary architect, changing the industry. But you're just playing at being important. Just like you're playing at being in charge."

Dennis’s laugh is thin, even as he attempts to sound certain. "Your crew seems to think I'm in charge."

"My crew?" Chris's laugh is all teeth. "They follow my lead because I know what I'm doing. They follow your orders because your signature's on their checks."

"And you? Why are you even here then?" Dennis challenges.

"Someone's got to make your amateur designs actually work." Chris leans in, voice dropping. "Face it princess, you need me. Your whole project needs me. Without my fixes, your sustainable dream would collapse faster than your daddy's faith in your abilities."

Dennis’s next breath catches in his throat. "Shut up,” he manages to grit out before he swallows.

"What's wrong? Hitting too close to home? Or is it just hitting spots daddy's approval can't reach?"

"I said I earned my place here!"

"Did you? Or did daddy just get tired of you playing with building blocks in his office?"

"Why are you such a—"

"Such a what?" Chris's eyes glitter. "Someone who actually knows what they're doing? Someone who doesn't need family connections to succeed? Someone who makes you question everything you think you've earned? No, princess." His smile turns predatory. "I think I'm exactly what you need. Even if you're too proud to admit it."

Something in Dennis snaps.

Dennis slams his tablet down, the sound of expensive tech hitting flimsy plastic echoing around the room. "What the fuck is your actual problem with me?"

"No problem." Chris stands up, his chair scraping against the floor. He stretches again, this time with a full body twist that makes his back muscles ripple under his shirt. "Just pointing out facts."

He walks to the door, his steps lazy. Swaggery . Then he pauses. Pulls his phone out and starts tapping, humming under his breath.

“But if you want to know what your problem is," Chris says, his tone casual. "It’s that you think you're such a big deal. Mr. Sustainable Architecture. Mr. Change The World."

"And you think you're God's gift to construction," Dennis bites back, weeks of frustration finally boiling over. "Like being able to read a blueprint makes you special."

"Oh, I'm special alright." Chris's grin turns wicked. "Want to see just how special?"

"What are you doing?" Dennis snaps, his patience so thin it’s see-through.

Chris turns his head, profile so sharp it almost slices the air. "Sending you something to remember me by." He smirks, and Dennis catches the expression from the side, the curve of Chris’s mouth way too smug.

Dennis’s phone buzzes. He looks down.

His eyes go wide.

"What the actual fuck?!" Dennis shoves back from the table. His chair clatters to the floor. "Did you just—"

"Frame it," Chris says with a wink, teeth flashing white. The jerk could give toothpaste models a run for their money. "Something that might actually impress you for once."

Then he's gone, his laughter trailing behind him.

Dennis stares at his phone.

At the very explicit photo now seared into his brain.

He should delete it.

He should report Chris for harassment.

He should definitely not be noticing how the lighting catches the curves and angles of the veins andof the thick, hard, lengt—

" Fuck! "

Dennis grabs his hard hat, the heat in his hand so intense it’s a wonder it doesn’t melt. He storms out of the office in a whirlwind of fury.

He finds Chris by the entrance, surrounded by his crew. They’re all snickering like they’re in on some kind of joke. All watching Dennis approach. Eye of the Tiger starts playing from someone's phone.

There are a few other people milling around, pointing at things, discussing next steps, though their eyes flick over to Dennis as he closes in on Chris.

"Something wrong, princess?" Chris’s voice is a low taunt. "Didn’t you like that? Need another angle maybe—"

Dennis’s fist swings before he knows it.

It connects with Chris’s jaw with a sharp smack that seems to echo around the room, louder than the collective gasps that immediately follow.

A sharp burst of pain radiates through his knuckles, electric and raw. The impact reverberates up his arm. The pain is sharp, cutting, and so, so satisfying.

The last thing he sees before the crew pulls them apart and security comes running is Chris's surprised face, dimples gone, perfect mouth hanging open.

Good.

At least something went right today.