Miyamura is in a terrible mood.
It’s in the tightness of his jaw, and the tenseness of his body. It’s not something he can hide.
It’s not anger or rage. It’s more like a rising irritation and annoyance— one that he can’t seem to control. It pours from his scent in waves.
His pheromones hang heavy and seem to seep into everything on our floor— into the seats in the waiting room, into the veneers on my desk, and even into my chest.
It’s stifling.
It’s like waiting for a volcano to erupt. All I can do at the moment is try to plan around the eruption, so I don’t get caught in it.
Thankfully, he doesn’t call me to his office to help him handle any more ‘private’ work. So the moment the clock strikes twelve for lunch break— I bail.
There is a pastry shop that I’ve been dying to go
