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Silas’s mind scrambled, words forming and dying on his tongue as his pulse hammered in his ears.

He forced a casual step forward, dropping his jacket on the chair by the door like nothing was wrong.

“Traffic,” he muttered, voice low, eyes avoiding Mateo’s piercing stare. “Stopped by a bar too. Needed… to clear my head.”

Mateo didn’t react.  He sat back in that chair, legs stretched out, utterly relaxed, swirling the champagne in his glass as though the bubbles were more interesting than Silas’s excuses.

“Mm,” he hummed, lifting the flute to his lips. He took a long, unhurried sip, gaze steady and dark over the rim. “A bar.”

Silas swallowed, forcing a shaky smirk. “What? You jealous I went drinking without you?”

Mateo chuckled softly. He set the glass down on the side table with care, his fingers drumming once on the crystal stem.

“Try harder, pretty boy,” Mateo said, his voice velvet laced with steel. “Because whatever lie you’re weaving right now… it isn’t even close to convincing.”

Silas’s smirk faltered. His throat felt dry, but he couldn’t look away from those eyes.

Mateo leaned back into the armchair, fingertips resting lightly against his lips, as if savoring the aftertaste of the champagne. His eyes never left Silas.

“You know…” he began, voice calm, and casual. “There’s a certain building downtown I avoid. Gray walls. Too many cameras. Too much… authority.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Silas like he was under a microscope. “Funny thing—I caught sight of someone very familiar walking out of it earlier today.”

Silas’s heart stuttered. His palms went damp, but he forced a shrug, slipping out of his shoes  slowly. “Lots of people in this city look like me,” he said, smirking faintly. “Guess you’re seeing ghosts now, Woods.”

Mateo chuckled, low and dangerous. He picked up his glass again, sipping leisurely. “Ghosts, hm? That’s an interesting choice of words. Because the man I saw didn’t look like a ghost at all. He looked… nervous.” His eyes narrowed. “Like someone carrying secrets too heavy for his pockets.”

Silas forced himself to scoff, moving toward the bed and tossing his jacket aside. “You’ve been drinking too much champagne. I told you—I was at a bar. End of story.”

Mateo swirled the liquid in his glass, slowly. His smirk was knowing, razor-sharp. “If you say so, pretty boy.”

Silas sat on the edge of the bed, pretending to relax, but every nerve in his body screamed with tension.

Silas cleared his throat, his voice tight but steady. “Good night,” he muttered, tugging at the edge of his shirt as if the simple act of undressing could dissolve the tension hanging in the air.

But Mateo didn’t answer.

He rose instead, slowly, picking up his pillow from the bed. The champagne glass was left half full on the table, the bubbles fizzing quietly in the silence.

“I’ll take the couch,” Mateo said flatly, already turning away. No glance back, no softness—just distance, sharp as glass.

Silas froze on the bed, watching him cross the room. Watching the man who was always in control choose space instead of confrontation.

The sound of the couch springs groaning as Mateo sat down echoed louder than words.

Silas just stared at him, chest heavy.

Silas lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, his chest tight. His throat burned with words he couldn’t say out loud.

I’m sorry, Mateo… he thought, eyes drifting toward the dark silhouette on the couch. You have every right to be angry. Every right to shut me out. I just—can’t tell you. Not yet.

Across the room, Mateo sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees.

His jaw was set, fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs.

What the fuck do you take me for, Silas? The thought burned hot in his skull. A fool? A toy? You walk out of the FBI’s doors and think I won’t notice? Think I won’t connect the dots?

He dragged a hand down his face, breath sharp, bitter. What the hell are you hiding from me, pretty boy… and why do I still let you lay under the same roof.


The morning light crept in through the curtains. Silas blinked awake, the sheets cool beside him.

He pushed himself up slowly, the ache in his chest returning as memory rushed back from the night before.

Across the suite, Mateo stood at the counter, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt. His back was to Silas as he moved calmly, pouring coffee into a single mug.

Silas’s throat tightened. On normal mornings, Mateo would’ve already leaned down, kissed him breathless before even touching the coffee pot. He would’ve asked if Silas slept well, if he was hungry, and then set out two cups—one for himself, one for his pretty boy.

But today… there was only one cup steaming in Mateo’s hand.

Silas sat there in silence, watching the way Mateo didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, didn’t even acknowledge he was awake. The distance felt sharper than any fight.

His chest hollowed with the thought: He’s still angry. And it’s my fault.

Silas slid back down against the headboard, eyes narrowing at Mateo’s stiff back. Fine. If his big, bad boyfriend wanted to keep acting cold, he’d just have to test how long that could last.

A slow smirk curved his lips.

He stretched—long, dramatic, catlike—letting the sheets slip down just enough to reveal the smooth line of his bare chest. His hand dragged lazily across his own stomach, fingertips grazing lower.

“Mm,” he hummed softly, loud enough to carry across the suite, fake-innocent but dripping with tease. “Guess I’ll just take care of myself if someone’s too busy with coffee.”

Mateo froze mid-pour, his grip tightening around the mug. The sound of hot liquid spilling over the rim hit the counter.

Silas bit back a laugh, watching out of the corner of his eye, then arched his back just a little more, lips parting on a breathy sigh like he wasn’t doing it on purpose at all.

“God, Mateo,” he drawled, pure mischief now, “you sure you don’t want to join me?”

Mateo’s jaw ticked, his shoulders rigid, but his ears flushed red. He set the mug down with a sharp clink.

Silas grinned to himself, heart racing. Hook, line, and sinker.