Page 133 of Under Construction

Meet me in the west wing

Dennis's stomach twists. Is this "the talk" to end it all when they're not even a thing?

When he arrives, Chris is waiting by the exposed beams, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks wrecked—shadows carved under his eyes, clothes wrinkled like he's been sleeping in them.

Something in Dennis's chest splinters.

"The permit," Chris says without preamble. "What was their reason this time?"

Dennis blinks. "How do you even know about that?"

"Just tell me." The words come out raw, worn down.

"Something about inadequate natural lighting and ventilation in one of the rooms, but they won't specify which one. Makes zero sense—we designed the central garden specifically to prevent this." Dennis explains, even though he distinctly feels like he owes Chris nothing.

Chris's expression shifts to something unreadable, making anger flare in Dennis's gut. Here Chris stands, right in front of him, yet still so far away.

"Why are you even asking? Why do you care?" Dennis's voice rises. "I don't know why I bother trying to talk to you."

He turns to leave but Chris catches his wrist, spinning him around. Their mouths collide—frantic, messy, seared with heat and hunger. Chris kisses like he's running out of time, like each taste might be their last.

"Chris, wait." But Chris is already mouthing down his neck, hands sliding under Dennis's shirt. "Please,stop!"

Chris freezes, face pressed to Dennis's cheek. His breath fans across Dennis's skin as his fingers trace Dennis's features, touching him like these seconds are slipping through his grasp.

"I want to understand." Dennis's fingers find Chris's jaw, ghost over his ear the way he used to. "Please, talk to me..."

Chris swallows hard, eyes squeezed shut as he grinds his forehead against Dennis's temple. "I—I can't."

"Why?" Dennis's thumb strokes Chris's cheek.

Chris's phone pierces the air. The sound makes him seize up, going rigid against Dennis as color drains from his face.

"Let me guess." Dennis’s voice is thin, scarcely holding together as he watches everything between them slip away like sand through his fingers. "You have to go."

"Dennis—"

"No!" He shoves away, fingers shaking as he fixes his shirt. "You know what? I'm done." He stares at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stay dry, his voice steady.

"I'm really sorry." Chris's voice comes empty, lifeless as he shakes his head.

When Dennis turns, Chris is already walking away. He doesn't look back.

Dennis stands there long after Chris's footsteps fade, surrounded by bamboo beams that suddenly feel more like prison bars.

Everything they've built together—the project, their relationship, their trust—has dissolved a little more each day until nothing remains.

And Dennis is starting to think maybe it was meant to break all along.

That night, his apartment feels emptier than ever. His bed stretches vast and silent without Chris's steady breathing beside him. His phone stays dark. The loneliness cuts deeper each night, like a wound that won't heal.

No message comes.

Dennis knows none ever will.

39Tangled Webs

They stop speaking entirely. Even site issues get relayed through Jason or random crew members. It grates on Dennis’s last nerve.

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