Page 103 of Under Construction

"Nobody does." Chris's laugh echoes empty. "One day she was there, making breakfast, telling me to study hard. Next day... nothing. No one could tell me who she was with, where she went, what happened. Just questions without answers."

"I—I'm sorry for..." Dennis fumbles, knowing a decade-old loss doesn't make the words any less inadequate. "Your loss..." He trails off as Chris shrugs, a tiny head shake suggesting he doesn't know what to say either.

"What about your father?" Dennis asks softly, the question hanging between them.

Chris's entire body locks up against him—muscles turning to stone, breath catching in his throat, heartbeat stuttering under Dennis’s palm.

He eases away from Dennis carefully despite his tension. "Need some water. Want any?" Without waiting for an answer, he disappears through the balcony door, past their mattress, into the kitchen.

Dennis watches him go, each step rigid and controlled like he's barely containing something explosive.

After a moment's hesitation, he follows.

He finds Chris at the counter, knuckles white where they grip the edge, head bowed, shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible weight. His face in profile shows a clenched jaw, furrowed brows—pure fury barely contained.

The last time Chris looked this angry, it was directed at Dennis during their worst fight when Dennis ended up punching him. He hasn't seen it since.

Someone else might keep their distance. Dennis moves closer instead.

"Hey." He wraps his arms around Chris's waist from behind, feeling the quick inhale, the momentary tensing, then the slow release as Chris exhales.

Dennis presses closer, hands smoothing over Chris's abdomen where the muscles bunch and knot. With Chris leaning forward against the counter, Dennis presses his lips to the nape of his neck, then rests his cheek against the curve of his spine.

They settle into the kind of quiet they've mastered. Like those late nights at the site when everyone's gone, or silent support exchanged across meeting tables, or cozy evenings cuddled up with Dennis reading while Chris games on his phone.

"I know you don't talk much about yourself," Dennis says softly, picking his words with care.

He's terrible at this—awkward with words thanks to his mom, worse with feelings courtesy of his dad. But Chris needs something, and Dennis would rather die than not try.

"You don't have to tell me anything. But if you want to—and it doesn't have to be now—you can.”

Dennis swallows, racking his brains for the right things to say. How come being stupid and unserious with Chris comes so easily but when it really counts, he can’t even help?

“There's never any rush to heal from these things, you know,” Dennis tries, soldiering on, no matter how cliché he sounds to himself. “Never any pressure to be okay… okay?"

Because Chris has always seemed fine—easy grins and dimples just for Dennis, crude jokes and mind-blowing sex.

But he's more than that.

Chris has also become Dennis’s rock, his shelter in every storm, the anchor that keeps him steady when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

And as perfect as Chris might seem, it’s become obvious that there are cracks somewhere in that perfection.

And he wants—needs—Chris to know that whatever pain, past, or scars he carries, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change how Dennis feels.

"Just... I'm here. If you need..."

Me, he wants to say, but that feels presumptuous.

"If you need someone. I'll always be here."

Chris stills, then his head turns first, like it’s moving towards Dennis’s voice, his body following a moment later.

Dennis starts to step back, but Chris holds onto his elbows, keeping him close. His gaze drifts from one of Dennis’s eyes to the other—studying, searching.

"Dennis..." his name falls from his lips, barely audible.

Dennis meets his gaze, caught in this moment where neither can look away. Neither wants to.

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