It’s fine that no one knows, he reminds himself, as he watches Chris demolish pancakes at midnight.
Normal people don’t broadcast their relationships—or, well, situationships—anyway. Do they?
But something warm curls in his chest when Chris finally succeeds in making him steal a bite from his plate.
When their feet tangle under the table. When their lives seem to tangle just as easily.
Something that feels dangerous, like expectation.
Something that feels safe, like home.
24Building Code
The new bamboo supports rise against Sacramento's skyline like the ribs of some prehistoric creature, their installation now routine after the success of the pavilion's first wing.
The crew's expertise shows—what took weeks of trial and error months ago now takes days, each beam slotting perfectly into place.
Dennis stands in the morning light, tablet forgotten in his hands as he watches their proven innovation replicate itself across the east expansion.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Chris's voice carries across the empty site.
It's too early for the crew, just them and the sunrise speckling everything gold.
"The load distribution's off on the east wing."
"Always the romantic." Chris steps closer, peering at Dennis’s tablet.
His open safety vest reveals a slice of white shirt that Dennis is definitely not thinking about removing in all sorts of ways because they’re at work and he’s a professional.
"Lemme see."
Dennis pulls up the calculations. Points to where the numbers don't quite align. "See? The stress points—"
"Are exactly where they should be." Chris's hand covers his on the screen and redirects to a different section. "You're not factoring in the natural flexibility of the material. Look at the bend ratio."
He's right. Of course he's right. Dennis hates when he's right.
"Since when are you the bamboo expert?" he says, trying not to frown.
"Since someone kept rejecting traditional supports." Chris's thumb strokes the inside of Dennis’s wrist, just once—professional distance dissolving like morning fog. "Had to learn fast to keep up with you."
The admission catches Dennis off guard. Pride unfurls beneath his ribs, warm and steady, spreading like the first light over the site.
"Fine,” he snips, still irritated but maybe just a smidge less so. “Show me," he says instead, unwilling to examine that feeling any further.
Chris guides him through the calculations, voice shifting into that focused tone he gets when he's explaining technical details.
His other hand rests on Dennis’s lower back, thumb hooked over the waistband of his pants like an anchor, a presence Dennis feels clearly through his crisp white dress shirt.
"The tensile strength increases here," Chris says, zooming in on the diagram. "When we angle the supports likethis—" His fingers move deftly across the screen, adjusting lines until the structure flows differently.
"But… that changes the whole aesthetic."
"But doubles the stability." Chris's breath brushes his ear. "Sometimes beauty needs backbone, princess."
Dennis’s brows draw together, lips pursing as he snaps his elbow back, sharp and fast, toward Chris’s chuckles and a waiting hand that knows all too well how Dennis reacts, catching him easily.
Fingers close around his arm, firm but gentle, sliding up and down in a slow, reassuring stroke meant to placate. One that seems more habit than intention.
