Page 54 of Under Construction

"How do you always know?" Dennis asks after their fourth rescue mission.

Chris shrugs, gentle hands scooping up a scraggly mother cat. "Used to feed strays as a kid. You learn their patterns."

Dennis adds this to his growing list of Chris Mysteries. Files it away with the Lexus and the expensive cologne and the way he sometimes stares at Oakview Heights like he's seeing ghosts.

Like those messages that light up Chris's phone—during work hours, site inspections, or when they’re alone together.

Just like that first morning after, except now, Dennis notices how each one transforms Chris's face: sometimes to anger, sometimes to sadness, sometimes to something like hope. How his smile might falter for just a moment before returningtoo bright. How sometimes he stares at his screen like it might bite him.

Dennis never asks.

Chris never offers an explanation.

Whatever personal battles Chris is fighting, Dennis isn’t that kind of fixture in his life.

Not his place to be.

The drives home get longer. More scenic routes. More detours.

Dennis never invites Chris up.

Chris never asks.

Perhaps they've drawn their lines without discussion. Built their walls with careful precision. Neither wanting to mention how easily they could all come down.

But sometimes, when they're tangled in the backseat of Chris's car, breathing hard and covered in marks that Dennis will admire later in his bathroom mirror—fingers brushing over each fading yellow bruise, their disappearance only soothed by the fresh purple blotches taking their place—he wonders what it would be like.

To have Chris in his bed. In his space. In his life properly.

He pushes the thought away.

This is enough.

It has to be.

18First Attempt

What isn’t enough are the touches. The kisses. The way their hands wander, always turning into something bolder—stroking each other, tasting, giving pleasure in ways that invariably leave them wanting more.

But curiosity always has a way of winning out.

It peaks one evening after everyone else has gone home to family and dinner and warmth.

Chris holds out his hand across Dennis’s desk, and for once, Dennis doesn't protest about unfinished work.

Instead, he takes it. Lets Chris lead him to the Lexus, to his apartment, to his bed.

"Have you ever wondered?" Dennis asks from his perch on Chris's lap, shirt half-unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder.

He rolls his hips, feeling Chris hard against him through the thin barrier of their underwear. A low hum escapes him—drawn-out and involuntary—pleasure simmering in the way his body now recognizes arousal. Anticipates its crest. Demands the satisfaction it’s grown used to.

"How it might feel?"

"How what might feel?"

Chris's hands slide up Dennis’s back, steady and warm, his only contribution to their thickening desire the shallow rocking of his hips to meet the press of Dennis’s movements—hips which become more insistent with each grind.

It’s all Chris can manage in his sitting position. He more than makes up for it, though, running his hand up to the back of Dennis’s neck to pull him down, their tongues sliding against each other in a kiss that leaves no space for thought. His other hand plays with Dennis’s nipples under his shirt.

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