He stared incredulously at her.
"Are you serious? It's ketchup," he said after a beat, his tone sharp with disbelief.
Frida scoffed, folding her arms tightly. "You better be joking!" she snapped, her voice trembling with suppressed anger.
"What do you want me to say, Frida?" Laz asked, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to her rising frustration. He sank onto the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, his gray eyes studying her intently.
"The truth," she whispered, denial threading through her voice.
"The truth?" he repeated, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "You're funny, Frida." Standing, he loomed over her, his full height and presence commanding the dimly lit room. "You say you trust me, then go ahead and bombard me with questions."
"That's because you're not giving me a direct answer!" she shot back, taking a step back instinctively.
