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Dennis's phone buzzes with the entry notification. Chris's face appears on the screen.

"What do you want?"

"Just to talk."

"I've asked you to talk until I'm hoarse."

"Please, Dennis. I need to see you."

Part of him lightens knowing Chris still needs him. His logical mind sneers at the weakness—maybe this is the perfect chance to end things cleanly.

He buzzes Chris up without another word, taking another scorching swallow of whiskey. He wants to be drunk tonight, needs the numbness. The alcohol's dulled his anger to something quieter. What he hopes will be more manageable.

When he opens the door, Chris is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands fidgeting at his sides. At the sight of the bottle, his movements still, and his brows knit together in worry.

Dennis doesn't let him speak. He yanks Chris inside by his shirt, smashing their mouths together.

Chris tries to pull back, words forming: "Denny, wait—" but Dennis bites his protest away.

They stumble through the entryway, hands everywhere.

Chris keeps trying to talk between kisses: "We need to—" and "Please just—" but Dennis silences him each time, ripping at jackets and pants until they're half-naked and pressed together.

Even through his anger, Dennis feels Chris's cock hardening against his hip. Satisfaction courses through him—Chris can sneak around with city hall women, can destroy Dennis's dreams, but his body betrays him. He wants Dennis, Dennis, Dennis .

Chris finally stops trying to talk. His hands find Dennis's hips from out of habit as Dennis shoves him against the wall. But it's different this time—no more letting Chris bend him over and take control. Dennis needs something back after everything Chris has stolen.

He spins around, pressing back against Chris's cock. His fingers claw into Chris's hair, wrenching Chris's head down to his shoulder. "If you can't fuck me hard enough to make me forget what you've done, you're worthless to me."

Chris's hands grip Dennis's waist, muscles bunching as he pivots them both in one fluid motion. Dennis's chest slams against the wall, the impact forcing air from his lungs. Yet when Chris speaks, his voice cracks with need:

"Denny, baby, please, princess, listen—" His hands slip under Dennis's shirt, moving on their own to every spot that makes Dennis gasp, every touch calibrated from months of learning Dennis's body.

Dennis braces both palms against the wall as Chris slides into him. Chris’s hands clamp over Dennis's, their fingers locking them together. Chris's thrusts batter Dennis's pelvis into cold marble. He comes like that, cock dragging against the wall, Chris filling him deep, shuddering into Dennis’s back as he follows.

Still burning with rage, Dennis turns. He twists his fist in Chris's shirt, yanking him into a kiss that's more teeth than lips until he tastes blood.

Then he shoves Chris, who lands on the floor with a dull thud, his palms slapping against the impact. He looks up, startled but steady, his voice low and firm.

"Baby, stop, you'll hurt yourself."

Dennis throws his head back with a sharp laugh. "You care if I hurt myself? When hurting me is all you do? When you go out of your way to destroy everything I touch?"

"I would never, I could never hurt you—"

Dennis straddles Chris's hips, venom dripping from each word. "Oh, you're so good at this—making me look fucked up while you play innocent. Aren't you clever?" He grabs Chris's softening cock, jerking it too rough until Chris winces, grasping fingers around his wrist. "Making me crazy for believing you, crazy for wanting you, crazy for loving you."

"Princess, please. I do love you, you know I do." Chris's face twists with something that hurts.

Liar. Liar!

"Prove it." Dennis sinks down onto Chris's half-hard length. A snarl builds in his throat when Chris doesn't instantly harden. He cages Chris's head between his forearms. "You can't even get hard for me. You don't want me, you’ve never wanted me."

Chris takes the bait. "I always want you. You don't understand—I can't stay away from you. Not even to protect you or the site—"

The words wash over Dennis unheard. "Get. Hard. Now ."

Chris's fingers dig into Dennis's ribs as he bucks up against him. Chris grimaces but his cock swells inside him. Even angry, even hurting, Chris's body responds to him. Then Dennis rides him mercilessly, twisting away when Chris tries to kiss him, tries to pull him closer.

Their bodies remember each other, moving in perfect sync despite everything disintegrating. They come without pleasure, just mechanical release, muscle memory without meaning.

Dennis stares down at Chris afterward, vision swimming. He wants Chris to fight back, to yell, to throw a punch, to say something—anything—so they can finally tear into each other properly. Anything but this silence.

Instead, Chris reaches for his face. "Baby, you're not okay. Let me help you get cleaned up."

Nausea hits Dennis like a wave. Not from what they've just done—though that sickens him too—how Chris can still pretend to care. But from the fantasy that he’s been nursing, crumbling around him. The fantasy that they can work this out and go back to normal.

There will be no talking, no explanations, no fixing this.

He scrambles off Chris, barely making it to the bathroom before his stomach lurches. Nothing comes up but alcohol—he hasn't eaten in days. The burn is worse coming back up, making his eyes water. Chris pounds on the door, calling his name, but it sounds distant, underwater.

Dennis sits on the cold tiles, bare ass freezing, Chris's release trickling down his thighs. He drops his head onto his forearm on the closed toilet lid, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Eventually he pushes up, finds his balance. Flushes. Brushes his teeth until the acid taste disappears. Rinses and wipes his mouth on his shirt before stepping out.

The floor is empty. The bedroom too. He walks toward his office and freezes—through the glass walls and black steel framing, he sees Chris crouched over the scattered papers, studying one intently like he's searching for something specific.

"Looking for more ways to sabotage my project?" The words scrape out of his throat.

Chris's head snaps up, eyes wide. He stands too quickly, reaching for Dennis who jerks back, arm raised like a shield.

"What? No, Dennis. Please let me explain." Chris's voice cracks.

"Explain what exactly?" Dennis coils like a cornered animal. "That you've been forging my signature to delay permits?" He jabs at the blueprints littering the floor. "That you've snuck in here stealing documents that could ruin everything? Since all the way back when you were pretending we—" He cuts off with a laugh that sounds brittle and devastated.

"It's not like that, Dennis, I swear." Chris approaches like he's trying to calm a feral cat, and Dennis thinks resentfully, how well Chris has practiced those skills on him.

Chris's lips move but Dennis can't process the words. Doesn't want to.

"Is that why you invited me for drinks that day? To 'celebrate' my innovation?" Each word feels like swallowing glass. "To get in my pants? So I'd—what—drop my guard and let you in?"

Their ragged breathing fills the silence.

"How could you think that?" Chris's voice comes lower and smaller than Dennis has ever heard it.

"Answer the question!"

"You must be able to tell I'm in love with you, you idiot." Finally, anger flashes in Chris's eyes.

Good. Dennis wants to dig deeper, draw blood.

"Even your mom could see it,” Chris seethes. “Only you're blind enough that you can't or won’t—you never wanted me to want you that way. I stayed happy with any crumb you'd throw me, always being your dirty little secret." Bitterness drips from Chris's words.

Dennis reels. He loved Chris first—how dare he?! "What the fuck are you even saying?" Dennis’s fists clench by his thighs.

"In the end, making daddy happy was always going to come first."

The words hit like a slap. "We're supposed to be professionals,” Dennis hisses, incredulous. “Was I supposed to flaunt our—our—whatever this is, so everyone thinks I play favorites?"

Chris's eyes blaze. "But I was your favorite in the end, wasn't I? Because I was easy and available and always there when you wanted a cheap, quick fuck —"

Something snaps in Dennis's chest and he launches himself at Chris with a roar. Months of shared dinners and lazy mornings dissolve into pure violence.

He slams into Chris full-force, driving him backward until Chris's spine hits the wall. Twice now Chris has decimated years of Dennis's carefully constructed control. Twice he's proven they're nothing but two men who hate each other.

"Take that back , you motherfucker!" Dennis spits, fisting Chris's shirt and throwing him sideways. His knuckles scrape against Chris's collarbone.

Chris catches himself, pivots. "Easy for you to say shit like that when you have a mom." His palm connects with Dennis's sternum, shoving him back until Dennis's heel catches the edge of a fallen paper box.

Dennis uses the momentum, grabbing Chris's wrist and yanking him down as he falls. "You know exactly what I meant!" They hit the floor together, papers scattering. Dennis drives his knee up between them. "But you want to drive me crazy, make me look insane , use this against me and my project. Show everyone how I fuck up over and over—you’re dreaming if you think I'm going down without you."

Chris twists, using his weight to flip them. His forearm presses across Dennis's chest. "You are fucking insane!” His eyes glint wild and unhinged. “Making shit up because you need someone to blame and I'm convenient. Just like I'm a convenient fuck that doesn't mean anything to you."

They roll across hardwood, sending blueprints flying. Chris's raw power should give him the advantage—his hands could easily crack Dennis's head against the floor. But Dennis is trained for this, knows exactly how to shift his weight, where to place pressure. He could hyperextend Chris's elbow, could snap off blood flow with the right grip.

Instead, their strikes land soft. Each grab loosens before it can bruise. Every throw ends lighter than it starts.

Dennis sees his opening. He hooks one leg over Chris's shoulder, the other crossing at the ankle behind Chris's neck. A twist of his hips brings Chris down, traps him there with Dennis's thigh pressed against his cheek. They freeze like that, half-naked and trembling, Chris's breath hot against Dennis's skin.

Silence reigns, except for their uneven gasps. Until the tension fades and their breathing steadies.

Finally, Chris says, calm and measured, “Let me fix this, Dennis.”

Dennis’s voice cuts sharp. “Fix what? Everything you’ve ruined?”

"It wasn't me." Chris swallows. The pressure of Dennis’s thigh around his neck makes him cough. His fingers dig into the flesh for relief. "Think about it—if I wanted to sabotage the project, why would I track down that missing truck? Why fix the permit issues? Look at the timing—someone's orchestrating this, someone who knows exactly how to make it look real. The truck, the permits, even Mary suddenly being unreachable.”

"For someone who's innocent, you sure know every detail of what's happening." The words bite, taste like sulfur.

"Princess. I need you to trust me. One time. That's all I'm asking."

"No, Chris." Something dead fills Dennis's laugh. He’s heard it all before and was stupid enough to give Chris what he wanted that very first night—give Chris part of himself—and look where they are now. “Like you said, none of this has to mean anything, right? So this is just—whatever, remember?"

Understanding passes between them—months of learning each other's bodies, habits, triggers—only make it easier for their souls to curdle, turn into poison. If they keep talking, they’ll keep tearing each other apart until there’s nothing left.

As one they release their holds. Roll apart. Stand.

Dennis picks up Chris's keys from where they fell during their earlier frenzy. Chris grabs their discarded pants. The keys arc through the air—Chris catches them without looking. He tosses Dennis his pants. They dress in silence.

Their eyes meet one final time. Then Chris turns, opens the door, and walks out.

Dennis's fingers close around a heavy crystal paperweight. He could throw it, watch it shatter against the wall like everything else. The soundproof walls would muffle the crash, but the earlier fighting thudding along the floor probably drew attention. He doesn't need the cops finding him like this.

He forces his grip to loosen. Losing control another time won't stop his project from crumbling, won't erase the truth that he'd fooled himself into thinking he meant something to Chris.

Some dreams aren't meant to be built on bamboo and lies.