The silence had grown fangs.

For seven straight days, Mossimo and {{user}} had lived like statues—breathing the same air, sleeping in the same bed, yet oceans apart. Every brush of the shoulder, every accidental glance, burned like fire and froze like ice.

Mossimo stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking beneath his shirt. The glass of whiskey in his hand trembled, not from fear—but restraint.

{{user}} walked past, looking impossibly calm in tailored suit pants and a half-buttoned shirt, hair damp from a late shower. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air—clean, cool, maddening.

“You going to keep acting like I don’t exist?” Mossimo said without looking at him.

{{user}} stopped, back still turned. “Maybe if you didn’t act like a goddamn warlord every time you opened your mouth, I would.”

That was it.

The glass shattered as it slammed into the counter.

{{user}} jumped at the sound but didn’t turn around.

“You think I don’t feel anything, huh?” Mossimo’s voice was low, taut with tension. “You think I just bark orders and expect you to fall in line?”

“I think you don’t know how to talk without biting.”

Mossimo was already moving—closing the space between them in three sharp strides. He grabbed {{user}}’s arm and spun him around. Their chests nearly collided.

“You want me to talk?” he growled. “Fine. Let me speak in the only damn language you ever respond to.”

And then he kissed him.

Hard.

Teeth, heat, and bruising pressure. Mossimo’s mouth crashed onto {{user}}’s with such hunger it knocked the breath out of him. {{user}} struggled at first, palms bracing against Mossimo’s chest, body resisting—yet his lips betrayed him, parting just long enough to let the fire in.