Page 92 of Under Construction

Dennis drums his fingers on his tablet. "The beams need to shift forty-five degrees west. You're not factoring in the load."

Chris shakes his head. "Nah, princess. I am factoring in the load. You're not factoring in the tension distribution." He leans closer, using his free hand to guide Dennis’s finger to another section of the blueprint.

The move is entirely unnecessary, and Dennis knows it. But he doesn't pull away—his skin always seeking Chris's these days, even during the most mundane moments.

"Everything I design factors in tension," Dennis argues, but his focus scatters as Chris's thumb strokes the inside of his wrist. "You're just being difficult."

"Me? Never." Chris's nose brushes his ear. "Just trying to keep your masterpiece standing. Can't have those pretty ideas falling down, can we?"

Two months ago, Dennis would have erupted at Chris dismissing his designs as 'pretty'.

Now he knows better—knows how Chris's eyes light up explaining his vision to investors, how he defends Dennis’s innovations to contractors.

"Pretty ideas built this pavilion." He tilts his head, giving Chris better access to his neck because apparently his body makes decisions without consulting his brain now.

Chris sets a mocha frappe on the desk—whipped cream towering, though with fewer pumps of sugar lately because Dennis frets about his teeth and his heart and his brain (which has shrunken quite enough, according to Dennis).

"And my expertise keeps it up," Chris says. His fingers trail under Dennis’s shirt. "Want me to test those structural tolerances?"

"I'd rather you demonstrate basic professionalism." Dennis reaches for his own iced americano—the one Chris brings like clockwork by six PM when Dennis needs the caffeine hit to power through evening paperwork, especially after Chris keeps him up all night. Black and bitter as his soul, Chris teases. "These investor reports won't write themselves."

"But this body's a temple." Chris nips at his neck, sneakily guiding Dennis’s hand to his crotch. "Needs proper worship."

"Your face is a temple," Dennis snorts on autopilot, but his palm curves around the hardness there instinctively.

"Oh? You like worshiping at my temple?" Chris's hands find Dennis’s hips. "Because I accept offerings in the form of that sweet, sweet booty—"

"The specs, Chris." Dennis tries to focus on work, but Chris's tongue traces a wet path from his collar to just below hisear and suddenly engineering feels very unimportant. "We need to—fuck!" His tablet clatters onto the table.

"That's the idea." Chris's teeth scrape the sensitive skin under his jaw. "Want me to show you what else my tongue can—"

A throat clears. Loudly.

They jump apart. Papers scatter across the folding table.

Jason stands in the doorway, looking supremely unimpressed.

"Got it, boss." Chris scratches the back of his head, crossing one leg over the other so the toe of his boot rests on the floor as he leans against the table, aiming for casual. "Beams, uh, west." He clears his throat. "And like... um... load distribution and stuff."

Jason's arms cross, eyes narrowed to slits. "If you two are done with your 'structural analysis,' maybe try locking the door?" He waves a hand at Chris's crotch. "And maybe dealing with that structural issue while you're at it."

Chris glances down. "Oops. Shit." He has the decency to turn around, but his attempts to rearrange only makes his giant bulge look even more prominent when he faces them again.

Trying to hold in a laugh, as he starts toward the door, Chris manages, "Jay, we was just—"

"Conducting physical assessments?" Jason slaps the envelope against Chris's chest, making him wheeze, “Don’t bother leaving, I was just dropping this off.” But his smile spreads wide. "Please, don't let me interrupt your... quality control inspection."

He tosses next week's zoning permits onto Dennis’s desk. "I’m glad to see you two seem real enGAYged in your work."

Jason spins around on his heel and walks out of the office, but not before throwing a “Have fun measuring your angles,” behind his shoulder.

The door clicks shut.

Chris laughs, rubbing his sternum where Jason nailed him. "Next time we'll give him a real show," he says, confidence flooding back now that Jason's gone. "Teach him to knock first."

His laugh dies as he opens the envelope.

Dennis notices the change instantly—how Chris's entire body goes rigid, the muscle in his jaw clenching as he reads.

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