Page 44

The next morning, the legal team's representative arrives for the boxes just as Dennis's mother sweeps into his apartment, dangling her car keys.

"I'll drive you to the office."

“Mom” Dennis rolls his eyes but falls into step with her as they exit the front door. "I feel like a middle schooler again."

"Oh shush!” She links her arm with his. “Let me be a concerned mother for once.”

The drive shouldn't take more than twenty minutes, but his mother misses every possible exit. The GPS keeps recalculating as she cruises past turn after turn.

"Mom, that's the fourth exit you didn't take."

"Whoops. I'll take the next one, then."

Dennis should protest—he has work to do, papers to sort through. But after everything, just being in his mother's presence makes the world feel a fraction steadier. He lets her drive, watching the city slide past, not really registering any of the streets, until she breaks their comfortable silence.

"How's Chris, in all of this?"

Dennis's fingers curl against his thighs. "Don’t know, don’t care."

"I got his number from Jason, messaged him when you fainted,” she continues conversationally, sunglasses on the road. “He didn't show up."

Dennis props his chin in his palm, staring out the window. Of course not. Chris was probably celebrating his successful sabotage.

"He called me though. Asked a hundred questions, sounded like he'd been crying. Made me promise to send updates, kept messaging to check on you..."

"Whatever," Dennis mutters into his hand.

"Are you two fighting?"

Dennis turns to find her watching him in quick glances between traffic. That knowing look tells him she's waiting for confirmation of what she's already pieced together. His mother's always had a sixth sense about these things.

"You already know,” he says, a little sulky because he’s with his mom, so he’s allowed. “So why ask?"

"I only know what your father told me. And you know he's a man of few words. I want to hear your version."

Dennis exhales hard, searching for where to even begin. That's when she takes the next exit—one he recognizes. His stomach drops as she turns left, pulling up across from Chris's building.

She puts the car in park and lowers the radio’s volume. Turns to face Dennis completely.

“Just as I don’t know your version of the story, you don’t know Chris’s.”

“But he—”

She raises her hand, cutting him off. "You are such an architect..." she sighs in Japanese. "There has to be more than what you see on the outside, Dennis Kim. I saw how you looked at him. How he looked at you. And I don't know everything that’s happened between you two, darling, but—all I know is you need to talk to him. Really talk to him,” she stresses, “not the way you boys do it, but with listening and understanding—before jumping to conclusions."

Dennis picks at his thumbnail until it bleeds. "I don't think he'll talk to me. He's been avoiding me for weeks."

His mother clicks her tongue, pulling his hands apart. "If he doesn't, then that burden stays on him and you'll know your answer."

"Easy for you to say." A sound escapes him that might have been a laugh in another life.

"I know, Deni-chan." Her fingers brush his cheek, soft and sure. "But it's what you need to do."

Dennis stares through the window at Chris's building. His breath catches in his chest, making everything too real. His mother's smile steadies him. He kisses her cheek, her palm warm against his face, before he steps out.

He pauses at her window. "How did you even know he lives here? It's not in his employment records."

"You don't really think your father's the only one with connections, do you?" She slides her sunglasses back on with a wink. "I have a meeting, but call if you need me to pick you up, okay?"

"’Kay."

Dennis's footsteps echo up Chris's familiar stairs. Once, they'd creeped him out. Then they'd led to some of the best moments of his life, to someone he never thought would matter so much. Now, each step feels heavier than the last, like climbing a mountain.

His heart thumps in his ears at the top landing, almost drowning out the crashes from inside Chris's apartment. The door stands ajar. Dennis freezes, emotions warring—anger and grief fighting for control.

" Woahwoahwoah , Shit fucking hell!" Chris's voice carries through the gap, followed by another crash.

Something shatters inside the apartment. Before Dennis can stop himself, worry surges through him. He edges through the doorway, trying to move silently.

“ Arghhh ! For fucks sake!!”

Chris kneels on the floor, gathering pieces of his broken trophy from the construction guild awards. He looks up at the door's soft click. The bags under his eyes age him years, his usual easy-going smile nowhere to be found. For once, Dennis doesn’t see confidence and swagger.

“Dennis?” he says, voice dry, squinting at Dennis like he’s a hallucination. “What are you doing here?”

But Dennis can't look away from the stripped bed, the stuffed backpacks beside it. The ukulele propped against one bag hits him like a punch.

"You're leaving?" His voice breaks more than he means it to.

Chris's face does something complicated—caught, guilty. "I—"

A harsh scoff tears from Dennis's throat. "Wow. Just like that? Not only did you burn our—” He swallows hard, the word dying in his throat. “ My project, but now you're running off without a word?"

It takes Dennis’s all to keep his voice from shaking. Coward!

"Dennis..."

"Don't 'Dennis' me." His fingers curl into fists. "What's next? Sorry, can't talk about it? Give me a fucking break, Christopher Lancaster ."

"How do you—"

"Know your real name?"

Recognition flashes across Chris's face. "You talked to him," he says flatly. A sharp sound puffs from his chest, then he turns back to packing like Dennis isn't even there.

“What difference does it make?”

"It makes all the difference!" Chris whirls around, voice rising sharply.

Dennis flinches at the outburst.

Chris's shoulders drop and he takes half a step forward, hands twitching like they want to reach for Dennis. "He's a charmer. Gets under your skin with his charisma and nice words. And I see he's gotten to you too." He yanks open a drawer, throwing socks into his bag with mechanical precision.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Chris freezes mid-motion, spine going rigid.

Dennis's eyes drift around the apartment—the monstera he'd bought to brighten the space still lush green and thriving, empty wine bottles from their lazier nights together lined up by the window, that stubborn wax stain on the floor from the blackout. Every detail that made this place feel like home.

"I trusted you, you know." His nails bite into his palms. "More than I should have. You destroyed that trust and yet... here I am. Trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Waiting for you to explain. To give me a reason to trust you again. Because for whatever fucking pathetic reason, I would..."

"I'm gonna fix this Dennis, I promise."

But Dennis has heard this line a million times by now.

"Then talk to me."

"I—I can't."

"Is this why you've been disappearing?” Dennis demands. Just one answer, for god’s sake! “Going crazy every time your phone rings?"

"I can't tell you now, but if you give me time—"

"Time?" Dennis's voice cracks. "How much more do you need?"

He shakes his head and turns for the door but Chris catches his arm.

"I just—I don't wanna put you in danger, Denny."

Dennis rolls his eyes so hard his head hurts. "Still think I'm some rookie who needs supervision?"

"No, Denny, that's not it. But you don't know him. He's evil. You have no idea what he's capable of—"

"He put down a great offer after my investors bailed—the ones that took me ages to get, by the way. Without him, we'd be bankrupt." The lie tastes sweet, watching it land.

Chris grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Shit shit shit." He returns to stuffing things in his bag with renewed urgency.

Dennis is in total disbelief. Wow.

"You're really leaving? Just like that?"

“Dennis, I can’t do this right now, okay?! I need— I need time.”

Time, time, time. Always time. Never answers.

"Fine." The fight drains from him. Everything points to Chris anyway. He won't waste another second here.

“Denn–”

“Just go.”

Chris shoulders his bags, keys jingling. As he passes, Dennis keeps his eyes forward, but Chris pauses. "If anything we had ever meant anything to you, please wait for me."

The nerve of this one. “You’re so dead to me, Christopher.”

Chris's jaw clenches, shoulders rising and falling with one strained breath. Without another word, he walks out, leaving the door open behind him.

The ukulele sits abandoned by the window. Something twists in Dennis's chest. He can't leave it here—won't examine why—but he takes it home with him anyway.

Somehow he feels it’s wrong to just leave it behind.