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 ...