Nausea

He is no longer wearing his coat, and the polo shirt is folded up to the elbow, emphasizing the muscles in his arms. Trence's jaw tightens, his eyebrows are shot, and he is now talking to someone on the phone. I don't know who he is talking to, but from the expression on his face, something terrible is happening. As he finishes the call, he turns back to me with a steely resolve in his eyes. "I already know who is behind that photo," he says firmly.

He walked back in front of me, but I quickly stopped him. "Don't come near me," I said to him.

He stopped, but there was a surprise in his look. "Why?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Just don't come near me; stay where you are," I said, holding a tissue around my nose.

"Are you sick?" he asked. I already vomit into his chest when he goes near my table. It's the same feeling that I feel when I'm outside my office. I smelled something wrong, and my stomach couldn't handle it.

He tried to step, but I stopped him with my stare.