The silence between them has teeth.

Tom breaks it first, leaning back against the wall like nothing is wrong, like the tension curling through the room isn’t his fault.

“Still not talking to me?” he asks coolly. “Because of a kiss? You’re being ridiculous, Mattheo.”

Mattheo doesn’t even look at him. His jaw tightens, eyes fixed somewhere far too distant to be calm.

“You should be thankful I’m ignoring you,” he says finally, voice low and sharp. “The alternative would hurt more, brother.”

That gets Tom’s attention.

He straightens, annoyance flashing across his face as he pushes off the wall. “Oh, spare me. You’re the one who dragged me to that club. You’re the one who kept shoving shots into my hands like it was some kind of dare.” His lips curl slightly. “Don’t look so surprised by the outcome.”

Mattheo turns then, fast. Dangerous.

“You kissed her, Tom,” he snaps. “Don’t fucking blame it on the shots.”

Tom scoffs, the sound smooth and infuriatingly calm. “Oh, come on. It barely counted as a kiss. You were right there.” His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Didn’t look like you were complaining. And she wasn’t either, if we’re being honest.”

That does it.

Mattheo steps forward, the air between them crackling, his magic reacting to his temper whether he wants it to or not. His voice drops, quiet in the way that means violence is being actively restrained.

“If you ever do it again,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “you better hope she’s the one stopping me.”

For the first time, Tom doesn’t smile.

He studies Mattheo, really looks at him, and something like understanding flickers behind his eyes. Not regret. Not apology. Just acknowledgment.

The silence returns, heavier than before.

And neither of them backs down.