Gemotions

He paced the length of the living room, the Persian rug feeling oddly slick beneath his feet. Each stride was a controlled explosion, the tension building with every turn. His hands were fists, knuckles bone-white. He’d found it – the hidden account, a carefully constructed façade of teenage rebellion. The words, the pictures, the carefully curated life that was utterly foreign to the girl he thought he knew, now burned in his memory. "Get in here, Maya," he growled, the command a low rumble in his chest.