Page 40 of Under Construction

Dennis stares at the cracked hardwood floor in front of him instead of focusing on the heat pooling in his stomach. "You cook?"

"I microwave with style." Chris's palm spreads and circles over Dennis’s toned stomach, then slides lower beneaththe blanket until Dennis’s breath hitches. Everything below his waist starts paying very close attention.

"Horrifying." But Dennis doesn't pull away. His stomach hollows on instinct, trying to escape Chris's touch, but Chris just follows the movement, pressing in deeper.

It makes Dennis’s neck stretch back and his hips push backward; what does any of this have to do with breakfast anyway?

Bzzzz!

The sound cuts through the room like a bucket of ice water.

They freeze, their breathing stopping mid-inhale, the only movement in the room the persistent buzzing of the phone.

"Yours or mine?" Dennis asks, arousal vanishing as reality crashes back.

"Fuck," Chris mutters, "mine." Chris reaches past him, grabbing his phone off the floor, then rolls onto his back.

The loss of contact leaves Dennis’s skin cold. He turns around onto his other side, head propped on his palm, watching Chris scroll through his phone.

His limbs feel empty now—already used to being tangled with Chris's after a whole night of laying together. They itch for the closeness but the harsh morning light streaming through the windows makes everything feel too raw, too real.

Good timing too, because Chris's entire body goes rigid.

"Shit."

"What?"

"Nothing." Chris bolts upright, sheets pooling in his lap. Every muscle in his torso tenses as he rakes fingers through his hair. His face transforms from soft morning warmth to something sharp and controlled. "Just... work stuff."

"Work stuff on your personal phone?" Dennis’s eyebrow rises even as his stomach sinks. Though really, given Chris's history with phones…

"Yeah, I—" Chris stops. Takes a breath. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips while his thumb hovers over the screen. "Rain check on breakfast?"

Just like that, the bubble bursts.

"Sure." Dennis rolls away, suddenly too aware of his nakedness, of last night's incredibly stupid decisions in the cold light of day. "I should go anyway."

"Dennis—"

His actual name in Chris's mouth makes everything worse.

Dennis moves faster, snatching up clothes—underwear and pants by the door, shirt under the kitchen counter.

"It's fine." He shoves one leg into his pants, trying to button his shirt with his other hand, eyes fixed anywhere but Chris. "This was..."

Fun?

A mistake?

The best night he's had in years?

Why is he even still talking? Force of habit, maybe, or that ingrained need to be polite even in the most awkward of situations.

There’s a right way to end these things, after all. No one could ever accuse Dennis of not demonstrating the most polished etiquette, no matter how short or long the night spent together.

"This was… whatever," he finishes lamely.

Chris watches him, phone forgotten in his hand. The softness from moments ago hardens into something else—like shutters closing behind his eyes, his jaw setting into familiar lines.

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