When Miguel steps through the door, I can see the exhaustion lining his face. But the moment our eyes meet, a cloud of tension descends.
“Hey, how was your trip?” I keep my tone casual, masking the storm brewing inside me.
“Fine,” he replies, shrugging off my question. But my heart is pounding, and I can’t hold back any longer.
His face darkens. “Those are for work. You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting? Miguel, hotel stays? Are you serious?”
His hands clench into fists, and I watch as anger warps his features. “You don’t understand. Just drop it.”
“No, I won’t.” I can feel the ground beneath me shifting. “You’re hiding something from me, and I need to know what it is.”
His expression falters, a flicker of something—fear?—crossing his eyes. “You need to trust me.”
But I can’t. I can’t trust the man standing in front of me when the smell saturates the very air we breathe.
