Page 13 of Under Construction

This time Dennis does laugh. It's that or scream. Of course Chris would go there. The man has no shame.

Fuck offhe texts back.

Already did. To your profile pic. No pun intended again.

Dennis looks out into the horizon, at his dreams of changing it slowly crumbling. He takes a very, very deep breath.

Then he blocks Chris's number again, orders a car, and tries very hard not to think about Chris jerking off to his company profile photo.

He fails spectacularly.

The next week is torture. Eye of the Tiger plays every time Dennis walks past the crew. Workers dodge exaggeratedly when he passes, shouting "Duck and cover!" Chris's team has started taking boxing stances when they see him coming.

And Chris?

Chris just watches with those dimples on full display, like he’s never been more entertained in his life.

Dennis has never hated anyone more.

07Saving Grace

A week after the punch, Dennis is leaving the site late, going over construction photos on his phone. Everyone else cleared out hours ago—everyone except whichever entitled jackass left their Lexus parked directly in front of the delivery entrance.

Idiot!

There's literally a massive sign that reads "KEEP CLEAR—MATERIAL DELIVERIES 6AM-10AM" and multiple orange cones that someone had tophysicallymove to park there.

The first concrete pour is scheduled for six-thirty in the morning, and if that truck can’t get through…

"Mrrrrow!"

Dennis stops mid-stride and mid-thought. He turns around in the empty street, looking left and right for the source of the sound.

"Mrrrrrrow!"

There. It seems to be coming from under the silver Lexus owned by whoever the dickwad is.

Dennis takes a step closer, bending down at the waist. That’s when he sees two tiny paws batting at empty air.

A kitten? He jogs over, alarmed. He hopes the little guy is okay!

"Hey there," Dennis crouches down when he reaches the car. "You okay, little one?"

"Mrrrrrrrrow!!"

"Hang on, I'll just—"

A hand grabs his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Dennis jolts up, nearly braining himself on the car's side mirror. He twists around as best he can in his crouched position, the gravel beneath his soles crunching loud enough to echo.

Ugh, it’s just stupid Chris. What is he, the carpark police?

Dennis’s eyebrows knit automatically—like they always do when Chris is around. "What does itlooklike I'm doing?" He tries shrugging off Chris's grip, but those fingers might as well be made of iron. Dennis glowers up at him, neck cramping from the angle.

Chris finally lets go and steps back, crossing his arms, but his presence still takes up too much space. "Looks like you're casing my car, is what itlookslike you’re doing."

“Your car?” Dennis snorts as he stands, straightening his crisp white dress shirt with deliberate care. He brushes off his shoulder—extra swipes for the spot Chris contaminated with his touch.

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