Moriarty didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. Every motion was driven by a sharp, desperate need, a collision of force and fire. He pressed harder, his body molding to Moran’s with a ferocity that was almost unhinged, matching every surge, every shiver. A low, guttural growl slipped past his teeth as he leaned closer, every instinct consumed by the tension that radiated between them. Fingers dug into shoulders, breaths came ragged and fast, hearts pounding in tandem, each movement sharper, faster, more consuming—two storms colliding until the world outside was nothing but heat and raw, unrelenting connection. Moriarty’s body shuddered violently as he let go, the tension that had bound him snapping in a rush of pure, electric energy. Every nerve screamed, every muscle quivering with a force that left him trembling and almost unsteady. The air seemed to hum around him, thick with the remnants of the storm he had become, and for a dizzying moment, the world narrowed to the pounding of his heart, and the heat under his skin. Eyes half-closed, a faint, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. He let himself simply exist in that rare space between chaos and stillness, basking in the euphoria that lingered like an aftershock. For once, there was no calculation, no scheme—just the echo of unrelenting force spent and survived, the exquisite quiet of being utterly, impossibly alive.