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Mateo shut the door softly behind him. He lifted the phone to his ear, voice low but laced with irritation.

“Aaron,” he said through clenched teeth. “Why the hell would you call at this hour?”

There was a nervous shuffle of breath on the other end before Aaron’s voice came through, rushed and apologetic.

“S–sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to disturb your peace… but sir, there’s an emergency!”

Mateo’s jaw flexed, his hand curling tighter around the phone. His voice dropped into that dangerous calm that always came before the storm.

“What kind of emergency?”

Mateo’s fingers dug into the bridge of his nose as Aaron’s shaky voice poured through the line.

“Boss… the FBI got a tip about your meeting with Marco. They’ve already surrounded the Atlantic—your ship. We got word from the head guard. They’ll be there in fifty minutes.”

The air went sharp, cold. Mateo’s jaw locked, his pulse spiking like fire under his skin.

“Fifty minutes?” His voice was a growl, barely controlled.

“Yes, sir,” Aaron stammered. “If we don’t reroute now, they’ll corner everyone on board.”

Mateo paced the hallway, bare feet soundless against the wood, his other hand clenched into a fist. He glanced back toward the closed bedroom door, where Silas lay tangled in his sheets—soft, warm, unaware of the storm brewing.

“Listen to me,” Mateo said, each word clipped. “Get the crew moving. Change course south immediately. I don’t care what you have to burn or who you have to bribe—don’t let them touch that ship.”

“Yes, boss!” Aaron replied quickly, the line crackling with urgency.

Mateo ended the call, his chest heaving. He stood still for a beat, the phone lowering slowly from his ear. Then his eyes flicked once more to the bedroom door, and something dark flickered in them.

Because if the FBI was already closing in… it meant someone close had tipped them off.

The door creaked open, and Mateo stepped back into the room, his expression unreadable, shoulders stiff, every trace of his earlier warmth gone.

On the bed, Silas had pushed the covers halfway down, hair mussed, skin flushed, bare chest catching the lazy morning light. He looked up with a teasing smile, voice still husky from sleep.

“What are you doing?” Silas asked softly, almost playful.

But the air shifted. The man who had brushed his hair, whispered to him, kissed him like he was fragile glass—wasn’t standing there anymore. Mateo’s eyes were sharp, darker, like he’d carried the storm back in with him.

He crossed the room slowly, jaw tight, and Silas felt his stomach flip. The playful question hung unanswered in the air, replaced by a silence so heavy it pressed into his skin.

“Mateo…?” Silas’s smile faltered, concern threading his tone.

Mateo sat on the edge of the bed, still staring at him. His hand brushed against Silas’s knee—gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a distraction.

Silas tilted his head, heart kicking. What happened in those few minutes? He searched Mateo’s face, the hard line of his mouth, the shadow in his eyes.

He wanted to press, but guilt already screamed inside him. Of course he’s acting different. Of course you don’t deserve his softness. You’re a liar in his bed.

Still, his voice came out quieter than he meant, fragile: “You’re… not the same. What’s wrong?”

Silas slid closer, the sheets slipping lower around his waist. He leaned in, lips brushing against Mateo’s jaw, the warmth of his breath carrying a teasing hum.

“Maybe I can change your mood,” he whispered, hand trailing down Mateo’s chest with that mischievous little smirk.

For a split second, Mateo’s body reacted—his breath stopped his muscles tense under Silas’s touch. But then, like a switch flipped, he grabbed Silas’s wrist, halting him mid-motion.

“Don’t.”

The one word made Silas freeze in place. Mateo’s eyes weren’t glazed with hunger like usual; instead it burnt with anger.

Silas blinked, his smirk faltering, voice tentative. “Mateo…?”

Mateo stood abruptly, putting distance between them. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing, his chest rising and falling. “Not now.”

The rejection landed sharp, even if it wasn’t meant to. Silas pulled the sheet higher over himself, eyes wide, guilt twisting like a knife.

Of course. He doesn’t want you. He shouldn’t want you. You’re a liar, a traitor, taking his touch like you deserve it.

But what gnawed at him more was the fire in Mateo’s eyes—the kind of fire that had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with whatever storm Mateo was hiding.

Silas tilted his head, lips curving into a sly smile despite the tension hanging heavy in the room.

He scooted closer again, sheet slipping dangerously low as he pressed a hand to Mateo’s chest.

“Are you hiding something from me, daddy?” he teased, voice dripping sweet and daring.

Mateo’s jaw ticked, his eyes cutting sharply toward him.

“C’mon…” Silas pressed, his tone softening into almost a pout. “Don’t hide things from me.” He traced a finger lazily down Mateo’s collarbone, trying to pull him back into that softness, that heat.

But instead of melting, Mateo snapped.

“Silas!” His voice cracked like thunder, harsh and raw, the sound ricocheting through the room.

Silas froze, his breath catching, heart lurching in his chest. The playful curve of his mouth fell, and for the first time, he flinched away from Mateo, pulling the sheet back over himself as if to shield from the force of it.

The sight hit Mateo like a punch to the gut. His face twisted, and his voice broke as he reached out instinctively.

“I’m sorry—fuck—I didn’t mean to, okay?” His hand hovered, hesitant, afraid to touch him now. His throat worked, his eyes glistening with something dangerously close to tears. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Silas sat there wide-eyed, clutching the sheets, guilt burning hotter than ever. He doesn’t even know the truth, and still I’m breaking him.

Mateo’s voice came again, low, wrecked. “Don’t look at me like I’d ever hurt you. Please.”