Page 132 of Under Construction

"Sorry, god—sorry." Chris's forehead drops to Dennis's thigh. "'m sorry, Denny."

"You've been apologizing a lot."

"And I mean it every time."

Dennis twists around, searching for Chris's eyes but finding nothing. The questions die in his throat. He turns back. "Just... just fuck me, alright?"

Chris drives into him like he's trying to bury his secrets inside Dennis's body. His hips wham, brutal and punishing, each thrust jolting the desk. Dennis's soft gasps turn to fractured cries—even the sting of being split open can't compare to everything else ripping their bond to shreds.

The desk rattles beneath them until Chris bites down hard on his neck, spilling deep. His hand finds Dennis's cock, stripping it efficiently until Dennis spills into his palm, feeling hollow and used.

Every touch with Chris leaves new scars lately. When did this become them?

They're still catching their breath when Chris's phone rings.

Chris yanks out so fast Dennis hisses. "Shit, I'm—"

"Sorry?" Dennis laughs bitterly, yanking up his pants with icy precision. "Go."

Chris freezes—hair wild, cum staining his pants where he'd wiped Dennis's release, belt hanging open. His phone buzzes in one hand while the other reaches for Dennis. His fingers brush Dennis's shoulder but Dennis jerks away, disgusted that he's become nothing but a ready hole for someone who barely looks at him anymore.

The love was always one sided.

"Just go."

The office door clicks shut. Dennis turns to face scattered permits on the floor, swept from his desk during their vacant, mechanical fucking. The application dates don't align with the rejection stamps.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

38Real Distance

The weekend alone in his apartment feels wrong. His bed's too soft, too cold. The silence of a space meant for two bodies but never was, echoes with every solitary movement—the clink of a single coffee mug, one set of footsteps, no shower steam fogging the mirrors.

When Jason calls about hanging out, Dennis burrows deeper under his covers, pulling them to his chin like a poor substitute for comfort.

"Go with Ryan," he tells Jason. "You can watch me mope any time. Band tickets are one night only."

"Fine, but I'm bringing you hangover soup tomorrow, and you're going to eat it while I judge your life choices," Jason says.

Dennis laughs despite himself, grateful for the friendship.

When he hangs up, thoughts of Chris flood back, relentless, until exhaustion finally drags him under. The effort of trying to push them away is too much to fight anymore.

His phone sits silent on the nightstand. No goodnight text. Nomiss you princess. No Chris.

He almost calls. His thumb hovers over Chris's number, but pride keeps him from hitting call.

It's just one night, he tells himself. They'll talk tomorrow and everything will make sense again.

Except one night becomes two. Then three. Then a week of sleeping alone, of half-eaten lunches going cold because Chris isn’t there to share them, of silence where there used to be stupid jokes and heated touches and that damn ukulele.

"Again?" Dennis doesn't bother hiding his frustration when Jason walks in waving another rejected permit.

"There has to be someone bigger than us blocking all this." Jason slumps against the desk. "I can't even get through to Mary anymore. She's been 'in meetings' every time I try. "Brought her a caramel macchiato, extra shot—Venti!—and everything."

"Something's definitely not right."

His phone lights up with Chris's number and his pulse betrays him, jumping before he can stop it. After Jason leaves, he opens the message:

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