The scent of Thor that morning—strong, woody, intense like him—began to turn her stomach. Nausea rose in her throat and mixed with the nervousness of being next to him, the memory of the withering look he had given Roberto, and the pressure she put on herself for seeming to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.

She tried to take a deep breath. Once, twice. In vain.

The tension in the car was almost palpable. And Thor, oblivious—or pretending to be—kept his eyes fixed on the road, his fists clenched on the steering wheel, his jaw locked. The silence was torture. A minefield of unspoken words and repressed feelings.

Celina closed her eyes for a moment and put her hand on her stomach. The nausea grew stronger.

"Thor..." she murmured, her voice weak.

He didn't answer.

"Thor, stop the car... please... now."

He glanced at her quickly in the rearview mirror and saw her pale face, covered in cold sweat. Without thinking twice, he pulled the car over to the sid