Page 41 of Under Construction

"Yeah," Chris says finally, voice clipped. "Whatever."

Something twists in Dennis’s gut, bitter and dark.

Of course. This was just a hookup. Why should he care who's texting Chris? Why should it matter how Chris's face just changed like someone flipped a switch?

It's not like they're... anything.

Thatthought alone makes bile rise in his throat.

What iswrongwith him? Why is he so… not casual or easy-going?Ever?!

He can't even do a one-night stand right!

He finishes putting on his clothes with mechanical efficiency, refusing to remember gentle hands or candlelight or dumb ukulele songs under stars. He yanks his shirt straight and tucks it in with trembling fingers that he pretends aren't shaking at all.

One shoe goes on as he's stumbling toward the exit. The other follows as he reaches for the door handle.

It sticks because of course it does, everything in this building is as stubborn as its resident. He pulls harder.

"Den..."

Chris's footsteps approach behind him and panic surges through Dennis’s chest.

He jerks the door so hard it finally gives, then he's through it, trying to pull it closed but the damn thing fights him again. He leaves it hanging awkwardly open, his shoulder protesting the force from his arm being almost wrenched off.

He makes himself walk—not run, definitely not run—to the stairs, Chris's gaze burning holes into his back.

The moment he hits the first landing, his composure shatters. He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time, nearly crashing through the lobby in his rush to escape.

Oh god. Work. How are they supposed to face each other at work?

This is definitely weird now. This is beyond weird. This is a catastrophe of his own making.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck why did he have to go and ruin everything?

Dennis just exits the front door when there’s a rattle of falling failed architecture from above.

He throws an arm up, bracing for the rain of loose tiles, just as Chris's window bangs open above.

"See you at work, princess!" Chris shouts at the top of his lungs, voice echoing down the street.

Dennis freezes mid-step on the sidewalk, mortification flooding through him as early morning joggers and coffee-clutching commuters turn to stare. His face burns hot enough to fry an egg as a group of elderly women pauses their power walk to whisper behind their hands.

But something light bubbles in his chest, pushing past the embarrassment.

Because that's Chris's normal voice—playful, teasing, nothing like the tension from moments ago.

Like he's making sure Dennis knows that whatever that phone call was about, it doesn't change... whateverthisis.

The knot in Dennis’s stomach unravels.

"I hate you!" Dennis yells back, straightening up, lips twitching as the power-walking ladies gasp in scandal. “And you weren’t even that good,” he shouts in afterthought.

"No you don't!" Chris's laughter chases him down the street. “And yes, I was!”

Dennis keeps walking, shoulders back, chin up, absolutely refusing to look back or acknowledge Chris again. He makes it halfway down the block before he realizes he's smiling.

His face still burns, his dignity is somewhere back on Chris's mattress, and he's pretty sure those old ladies are going to pray for his soul, but...

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