Page 8

Three days before the investor visit, Dennis walks into organized chaos. Workers swarm over exposed beams, cleaning and polishing until bamboo gleams like gold in the morning light.

His shoulders ache from tension. There’s so much going on and so little time to get it all done. Dennis feels pulled into a million directions.

The drywall incident put them behind schedule, his mother is arriving tonight for their monthly family dinner which guarantees that he’ll be the default referee to his parents’ fights, and Chris...

Well, Chris has been different since the kitten rescue.

Less antagonistic, more... something else. Something that makes Dennis’s stomach lurch when their eyes meet across the site. God, the fucker gives him indigestion.

He still doesn’t trust the guy as far as he can throw him—which is, not very far, because Chris is a big dude—but at least they’re not biting each other’s heads off any more.

Speak of the devil.

Chris comes into view and stands by the entrance, clipboard propped against his hip as he gestures at something overhead. "No, that section there," he's saying to someone up on the scaffold, using his pen to point. "Yeah, that's the one that needs the extra coat."

He stops, scribbles something down, then brings the pen to his mouth, chewing absently on the cap as he studies whatever's on the page, his forehead creased in concentration.

Dennis finds himself watching the scene, thrown by how... normal Chris looks like this. Just doing his job without any of the usual posturing.

Before he knows it, he’s walking over and stopping next to Chris.

Chris doesn’t look up or acknowledge him. He’s frowning at his clipboard, completely absorbed in whatever calculations he’s checking.

Dennis clears his throat.

Nothing.

"The beams look good," he says finally.

Chris looks up from his clipboard. Blinks like he's not sure Dennis just spoke to him. "What?"

"The exposed beams." Dennis gestures at the ceiling. "They look good. Your team did well."

"Oh," Chris's dimples make a brief appearance, “right, right.” He tips his hard hat. "Um, thanks, I guess. We aim to please."

Chris caught off guard is…

Well, it’s a nicer Chris than whatever dickhole Dennis has been dealing with over the last however long. Dennis can afford to be a little friendlier today, he supposes. Just a smidge.

"When we're not sending inappropriate photos, you mean?"

He purses his lips, biting back a grin.

Too much?

"Never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

Chris laughs. Actually laughs. Not the mocking one Dennis is used to, but something real.

It changes his whole face. Makes him look younger, more carefree.

Better looking than ever.

Dennis’s stomach does a little flip which he interprets as: Danger. Danger!

It’s just bizarre that Chris is not being an ass. Is there something wrong with him? Is he sick? Or is Dennis dying—is that why?

Dennis should probably keep his guard up. Chris being nice might mean he's planning something particularly obnoxious and Dennis doesn’t want to be disappointed when the other shoe drops.

"How's the kitten?" Dennis asks, changing the subject.

Apparently they also have conversations now. Like normal people. Dennis might as well appreciate the truce while he can.

"Good!” Chris’s clipboard drops to his side as his whole body turns to face Dennis. He grins, all chiseled jaw and pearly whites. “Shelter called yesterday. Some family with little kids is adopting her—already! Can you believe it?!"

"That's great!" Dennis is actually super thrilled for their little one. He bounces on his toes a bit, pleased with the news. “I don’t want to be biased,” he leans in like he’s sharing a secret, voice higher and happier now before he can stop it, “but she is the prettiest kitty there!”

"Yeah!" Chris barks out a laugh, slapping the back of his clipboard. His shoulder bumps Dennis’s as he rocks back. "It's 'cause we have great taste in pussy!"

The laughter from both of them spikes, then fades out.

Then Chris scuffs his boot against the floor, clipboard tapping against his thigh as he shifts his weight. "Listen," he starts, "about the other day—"

"Progress report!" Jason bursts into the room, his voice cutting through the construction noise.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Dennis and Chris standing together, all their limbs intact. "Whoa," he breathes in disbelief, papers clutched to his chest, eyes darting between them, "you two can be in the same room without killing each other?"

"Um, apparently?" Chris tucks his clipboard under his arm, chin-nods at Jason in a casual hello and goodbye, then makes eye contact with Dennis. "Later, princess."

He shoulders past Jason and walks off without looking back.

"What was that about?" Jason asks, wide-eyed and interested. "Last I heard, you punched him in that gorgeous face of his, and your dad was pissed ."

Dennis shrugs in response. It’s not that gorgeous, though—is it? “Who the hell knows.”

Chris is a weirdo at the best of times, after all. There’s no knowing what goes on in that head of his.

"Come on, Den," Jason walks in towards the fold-out table they’d been using to review plans and shuffle endless stacks of paperwork. "You need to see these."

He dumps the pile of papers on the table as Dennis approaches. “You’re not going to be happy about this,” he warns, “but I’ve racked my brains and I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it.”

Dennis picks up the papers and flips through them. Then he’s narrowing his eyes, eyebrows getting scrunchier as he scans the pages. "What the fuck is all this?"

“Yeah, uh,” Jason scratches the back of his head, one eye closed, bracing for impact as he searches for the words with the lowest probability of getting messengers shot. “Your father wants changes to the sustainability features?" he ends up squeaking out.

God fucking damn it, of course he does.

"No!" Dennis’s voice booms over the sounds of men at work around them, loud enough to make everything stop for a second before it all resumes. He drops the papers.

His father’s words echo in his head: " Stop playing with toy blocks and build something real ."

Jason at least has the decency to flinch. "Come on,” he squirms, eager to escape this conversation in one piece, “they're not that bad—"

"I said no ." Dennis snaps his head to Jason, but he’s glaring so Jason shrinks back, terrified for his life.

Argh! The weight of tonight's family dinner, of his mother's arrival, of Chris's stupid, disgusting, annoying, really, really strange lingering looks and half-sentences—it all crashes down on him at once.

"Your father—"

"Isn't the architect." Dennis sweeps his arm at the window overlooking their work of the pavilion—at the sustainable materials being hoisted up, at the innovative support system taking shape, at the dream slowly becoming reality right outside. "This is my project."

Jason slumps against the table wearily, making it wobble, crossing his arms and legs. "Not for long if you keep fighting him."

"Then I guess I better make it count." Dennis snatches his tablet from the makeshift desk, papers scattering in his wake. "Meeting in ten. Get everyone into the office."

"Everyone?" Jason's eyes widen. "Even Chris?"

"Especially Chris."

Ten minutes later the site office is packed, bodies crammed into the temporary space. The sharp scent of sawdust mixes with coffee and sweat, while the constant thrum of machinery filters through the thin walls. Metal folding chairs scrape against the floor as workers squeeze in, some still dusted with the day's work.

Chris leans against the wall by the door, behind everyone, arms crossed over his safety vest. Watching.

"The designs stay as is," Dennis tells them all, his hands planted on the rickety table, knuckles white against the metal edge. "Anyone who has a problem with that can leave. Anyone who stays, commits to the original vision."

His gaze finds Jerry from electrical, then Zhang from structural, holding each man's stare until they nod back. He sweeps his eyes across the room, connecting with more of his team—Jim, Rodrigo, Kaito—until he feels the energy in the room shift.

"Sustainable. Innovative." He glances up and catches Chris already watching him, something certain and intent in his expression. "Unlike anything else in this city."

The machinery noise outside seems louder in the silence that follows. Someone's coffee cup hits a surface with a nervous clink.

"This means going against Kim Industries," Jason points out. "Against your father."

"Yes." Dennis’s voice doesn't waver.

"You could lose everything."

"Yes." His grip on the table tightens.

The air conditioner rattles. A drill whines somewhere outside. No one moves.

Then Chris straightens up, safety vest crinkling as he pushes off the wall. "Fuck it, I'm in."

"What?" Jason gapes at him.

"You heard the princess." Chris steps forward, the crowd parting for him like water. His grin has an edge Dennis has never seen before—like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. "We're building something different."

He sweeps his gaze around the room, and his crew instantly look up, their attention snapping to him as if drawn by gravity, waiting to see what he’ll do or say next. "Let's fucking go!"

The mood in the room transforms. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, low and buzzing, people leaning toward each other, nodding and exchanging words.

Those who hadn't already committed straighten up, sharing glances as they weigh the shift in momentum. One by one, they nod. Agree.

Dennis finds his eyes drawn to Chris. To the way he's looking at him like he's actually seeing him for the first time. Like maybe he's not just the spoiled heir to Kim Industries after all.

Voices get louder. There’s a laugh. An exclamation. The room feels alive now, humming with quiet energy and purpose.

Then Chris is looking down at his phone, thumbs flying across the screen while that infuriating grin spreads across his face. The fluorescent lights carve sharp shadows along his jaw and cheekbones, accentuating the rugged lines of his face

Dennis’s own phone buzzes against his thigh.

"Alright, let's get back to work." His voice carries easily through the chatter.

The crew meander out, some still discussing the meeting, each worker meeting his eyes as they pass, some with nods, others with small smiles—different from their usual quick exits. Even Jerry, who's been working sites longer than Dennis has been alive, claps him once on the shoulder before heading out.

He waits until the last worker files out, until the shuffle of boots and murmur of voices fades down the hall, before he checks it.

New number.

Drinks later? To celebrate our rebellion?

Dennis looks up. Chris is still lingering by the door, phone dangling from his fingers, dimples on full display. He looks like he’s watching for Dennis’s reaction.

Dennis rolls his eyes. Types back anyway because apparently they have a textual relationship now.

How many phones do you own?

Chris's laugh echoes across the office, rich and warm. "Really princess?"

"Really." But Dennis is fighting back a smile with his bottom lip between his teeth and they both know it.

Chris’s head bows down, then:

Bzzz.

How many times you gonna block me?

Dennis’s cheeks burn hot enough to rival the afternoon sun streaming through the window. He keeps his eyes glued to his screen, refusing to look up, when he types:

Blocking you now.

"No you won’t," Chris says from the doorway, all swagger and confidence. The kind that comes from knowing he’s right.

Dennis doesn’t, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.

"Get out of my office."

"It's a site office. Shared space." Chris's fingers drum against the doorframe, a rhythmic tap that somehow manages to sound smug.

"Out!"

Chris chuckles, then pushes off the doorframe with his shoulder, work boots scuffing against the floor as he takes two steps into the hall, disappearing from Dennis’s sight. Then he's back, poking his head around the corner, safety vest catching on the edge. "Is that a ‘no’ to drinks then?"

Dennis grabs the nearest object—a stapler—and hurls it at the door.

Chris ducks away, laughing, as it klunk s against the temporary door frame—precisely where he had been just a split second ago. The sounds of his amusement trail behind him down the hall.

Dennis shoves his phone into his back pocket. There's work to be done. Plans to finalize. A rebellion to organize.

He tries not to think about drinks. Or dimples. Or dick pics. Or the way Chris's laugh reverberates in his chest long after the sound has faded.

Who is he kidding? It's all he can think about.