Briggs’ POV
The station doors slide shut behind us.
Cold air hits my face, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the tension sitting heavy between me and my mother.
She’s been talking, no, muttering under her breath. Sharp, clipped Spanish slipping out in fragments she doesn’t bother to finish. And I hate that.
More than yelling, more than confrontation.
“Mamá.” My voice comes low, steady.
She doesn’t respond, she kept walking. Heels striking the pavement like she’s trying to crush something under them.
“Mamá,” I repeat, this time in Spanish. “¿Qué pasa?”
She stops, and slowly turns, eyes sharp.
“What’s the problem?” I press, still in Spanish. “You’ve been muttering for minutes now.”
She studies me, really studies me. Then let out a short breath.
“You want me to talk,” she says, sw
