Page 114 of Under Construction

"What, be your arm candy?" Chris's face breaks into that cocky grin Dennis pretends to hate.

Dennis traces Chris's ear, grinning down at his rugged features and clever eyes. "You're my site manager. You know the construction better than anyone. In case they have questions about implementation costs or structural innovations—please?"

Chris hesitates. His expression clouds for just a moment.

"I need you there," Dennis says quietly.

Chris sighs when Dennis’s smile turns extra bright, eyes crinkling at the corners. He never could resist that look.

"Whatever you want, princess. But I'm not wearing a fucking tux."

32Public Relations

Dennis pokes his head into the shower on the morning of the investor gala—fully dressed and on the way out so he can go back to his apartment and get ready. "One kiss before I go!"

Chris yanks him forward by his shirt. Water soaks through the fabric instantly as their mouths meet. When Dennis tries to pull away, Chris chases his lips, making a small sound of protest that has Dennis’s heart doing cartwheels.

“Chris, baby, you’re getting me all wet!” Dennis laughs, and when Chris still doesn’t let go, he flicks him right on the dick.

Chris hisses in betrayal, finally releasing him, and Dennis makes his escape. Trust Chris to turn even rushed goodbyes into something that leaves him grinning like an idiot all the way to his Uber.

Back at his place, Dennis fusses with his silver cufflinks—last birthday's gift from his mother. His longer hair that he hasn’t gotten around to getting cut yet takes three attempts to get right, warming product between his palms before working it through with practiced movements. The whole process feels oddly formal now after months of Chris's fingers constantly messing it up.

His phone lights up with Chris's missed call, signaling he’s arrived and waiting, just as Dennis perfects the knot of his bowtie. His reflection grins back at him—his face does this thing now whenever Chris is involved, like Chris is some kind of happy pill he can't get enough of.

When Dennis gets downstairs, Chris is waiting in the lobby, hands tucked in his pockets as he looks out through the glass doors. He's wearing a black tuxedo that could only have come from a private Italian atelier—the kind of bespoke tailoring that takes multiple fittings to achieve. The fabric alone probably costs more than most people's monthly rent.

Together with Dennis’s bordeaux suit and black bowtie, they look like they've stepped straight off a runway.

That tux has Dennis wondering again about the collection gathering dust lined in the racks in Chris's apartment, alongside those Italian leather shoes that have no business on a construction site. "It's just from a past life," is all Chris ever says about them. But whatever Chris used to do, he clearly looked damn good doing it.

"I thought you said no tux," Dennis says, his footsteps echoing across marble.

At the sound of Dennis’s voice, Chris spins around.

His hair is swept back, every strand perfectly in place—worlds away from his usual tousled mess on site. He looks like the kind of man who stops traffic, who makes heads turn regardless of gender. The open collar without a bowtie is pure Chris though, that tiny rebellion that makes Dennis’s chest squeeze.

Chris's expression shifts as he takes in Dennis—surprise flickering across his features before his eyes go warm and dark,dimples appearing as his mouth curves into that smile that's just for Dennis.

Dennis lets his gaze trail down Chris's body and back up, his heart picking up speed. A blush creeps up his neck despite his best efforts to suppress it. How is it even fair for someone to look this handsome?

"Hmm?" Chris reaches out and Dennis’s hand finds his without thinking—like they've done this a thousand times, like their bodies know the choreography by heart. Chris tugs him closer for a kiss—soft press, quick sweep of tongue—then quirks an eyebrow. "Can't exactly show up in a tank top and construction boots, can I?"

"Could be hot." Dennis’s ears burn fiercely, and he pretends not to notice them, hoping Chris won't either.

"Not as hot as this." Chris spins on the heels of his perfectly polished shoes, giving Dennis the full view. "Custom Brioni deserves an audience, don't you think?"

Dennis swallows hard. Chris wears luxury like it's a second skin, so at home in formal wear it makes Dennis wonder if he really did moonlight as arm candy in that mysterious past life of his.

"Chris..." The words tumble out before he can stop them. "Were you an escort or something?"

Chris bursts out laughing, stepping closer as his arm snakes around Dennis’s waist. "Why, princess?" His eyes sparkle with mischief. "Are you going to be my sugar mommy?"

Before Dennis can respond, Chris leans in, trying to nuzzle into his neck. Dennis twists, dodging with a laugh of his own, torn between pushing Chris away and saving their suits from wrinkles. "Watch the hair!" he yelps.

The drive to the convention center passes in comfortable quiet. Dennis clutches his speech cards even though he's memorized every soulless word. Chris's hand rests warm on his thigh. His fingers tap along to the rhythm of Dennis’s speech as Dennis mutters under his breath, jumping in with gentle prompts whenever he stumbles.

Dennis steals little glances as Chris drives. His hand moves to Chris's, pinky bumping against Chris's fingers. Chris covers Dennis’s hand instantly, both of them spreading their fingers until they slot together, key meeting lock. Watching them work together like this, so in sync—it hits Dennis sometimes how perfectly they fit.

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