Page 138 of Under Construction

Silence reigns, except for their uneven gasps. Until the tension fades and their breathing steadies.

Finally, Chris says, calm and measured, “Let me fix this, Dennis.”

Dennis’s voice cuts sharp. “Fix what? Everything you’ve ruined?”

"It wasn't me." Chris swallows. The pressure of Dennis’s thigh around his neck makes him cough. His fingers dig into the flesh for relief. "Think about it—if I wanted to sabotage the project, why would I track down that missing truck? Why fix the permit issues? Look at the timing—someone's orchestrating this, someone who knows exactly how to make it look real. The truck, the permits, even Mary suddenly being unreachable.”

"For someone who's innocent, you sure know every detail of what's happening." The words bite, taste like sulfur.

"Princess. I need you to trust me. One time. That's all I'm asking."

"No, Chris." Something dead fills Dennis's laugh. He’s heard it all before and was stupid enough to give Chris whathe wanted that very first night—give Chris part of himself—and look where they are now. “Like you said, none of this has to mean anything, right? So this is just—whatever, remember?"

Understanding passes between them—months of learning each other's bodies, habits, triggers—only make it easier for their souls to curdle, turn into poison. If they keep talking, they’ll keep tearing each other apart until there’s nothing left.

As one they release their holds. Roll apart. Stand.

Dennis picks up Chris's keys from where they fell during their earlier frenzy. Chris grabs their discarded pants. The keys arc through the air—Chris catches them without looking. He tosses Dennis his pants. They dress in silence.

Their eyes meet one final time. Then Chris turns, opens the door, and walks out.

Dennis's fingers close around a heavy crystal paperweight. He could throw it, watch it shatter against the wall like everything else. The soundproof walls would muffle the crash, but the earlier fighting thudding along the floor probably drew attention. He doesn't need the cops finding him like this.

He forces his grip to loosen. Losing control another time won't stop his project from crumbling, won't erase the truth that he'd fooled himself into thinking he meant something to Chris.

Some dreams aren't meant to be built on bamboo and lies.

41Where There’s Smoke

Dennis doesn't sleep that night.

He paces his apartment, nauseous from the fight, from an empty stomach, from too much whiskey. He used to handle these nights better in college, when he and Jason would drink until sunrise. But those days feel like another lifetime now.

He thought he was building something real. Permanent.

He was wrong.

The sky's still dark when his phone erupts with Jason’s ringtone. His friend's words come garbled, panicked: "—emergency—site—get here now—"

Dennis's blood freezes.

He makes it to the site in record time. Even before he gets out of the Uber—even from the road on the way there—he sees it.

Flames.

The east wing blazes against the pre-dawn sky, flames licking thirty feet into the air. The heat slams into his face like a physical wall even from the parking lot. Fire crews swarm the perimeter, their hoses pitifully small against the roaring inferno.

Jason sprints over in sweatpants and a hastily thrown-on site jacket, face streaked with ash. "God, Den—security system went off but when I got here it was already—"

He keeps talking but Dennis can't process the words.

The world narrows to the flames. He can't move, can't speak, can barely draw breath. Everything feels distant, unreal, like he's watching someone else's nightmare unfold.

The bamboo supports and steel framework crack and splinter in the heat. Each pop sounds like a gunshot.

Some of the crew have gathered—the ones who live closest. He can see them work alongside Chris, dragging equipment and supplies clear of the danger zone while firefighters battle the blaze.

Chris is soaked with sweat, shirt clinging to his back as he helps carry machinery, shouting directions between heavy breaths.

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