Page 38 of Under Construction

"Tell me."

Chris sets the ukulele aside. Wraps his arms around Dennis’s waist, chin settling on his shoulder before he presses his face into Dennis’s neck.

"I think about choices," he says into Dennis’s skin. "About expectations. About trying to be something you're not, just to prove you can be."

"That's..." Dennis swallows. "Specific."

"Yeah." Chris's arms tighten. "Sometimes life just hits you that way."

More words hover between them. Questions Dennis wants to ask. Answers Chris might give.

But the night feels too fragile for questions.

So Dennis turns in Chris's arms, his hand finding Chris's jaw before he can think better of it.

When their mouths meet, Chris's lips part instantly—no wariness, no calculation, just open and willing.

It makes Dennis feel funny inside, but his eyes close when he sees Chris's already have.

They kiss slow and deep, Chris's tongue dapping against his. He still tastes like Dennis, like the sounds they drew from each other earlier.

Chris's hands spread across his back, turn him until their chests press together. Fingers card through the hair at Dennis’s nape, thumbs stroking his cheekbones while they trade breaths.

This means nothing, Dennis reminds himself. They're just two guys too busy for dating. Too focused on work to look for actual girls and real relationships.

This is convenient. Simple. Mutual.

It doesn't matter that Chris still deepens the kiss like he can’t get enough, or that every touch smolders through the lazy aftermath of their earlier activities.

Doesn't matter that Chris's hands can't stay still—spreading over Dennis’s back, pulling him closer, fingers threading into his hair to tilt his head just right.

So Dennis lets himself pretend, just for now, that this could be simple.

That they could be simple.

A shooting star streaks overhead.

Neither of them makes a wish.

They don't need to.

Everything they shouldn't want is right here.

14Morning Light

Sunlight pierces through uncovered windows, rousing Dennis from sleep.

Something heavy drapes over his waist.

He blinks, mind cotton-filled.

Where...? Who...? Wha...?

This isn't his Egyptian cotton. This isn't his memory foam mattress.

He tries to prop himself up to piece together his surroundings, but his body won't budge.

His hands fumble forward and back—finding coarse fingers pressed against his stomach, a forearm hard from construction work, and behind him, glutes and thighs that speak of too many squats at whatever fancy gym they pretend not to have a membership to.

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