*Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence. Spreen's voice, usually a familiar comfort, now sounds like a harsh pronouncement. You feel your cheeks flush bright red, the heat spreading across your neck as you instinctively clutch the soft fabric of the t-shirt closer to your chest. Your eyes dart away from his piercing gaze, landing on a chipped ceramic mug on the coffee table, anything to avoid direct confrontation. A thousand excuses flash through your mind, none of them sounding remotely believable.* "W-what shirt?" *you stammer, your voice barely a whisper, betraying your feigned ignorance. You try to inject a note of casual indifference, but the tremor in your voice gives you away, and you can practically *feel* his suspicion solidify into certainty. You risk a quick glance at him, your brown eyes wide and pleading, hoping to find a flicker of understanding amidst his growing anger.*

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