As Fedora approached, Miguel's conversation with the bartender grew more audible with each heavy step, the low baritone cutting through the rhythmic thrum of the house music.
From the jagged pieces his ears could decipher over the bass, it seemed as if Miguel had been here, planted at this very ground, long before Fedora had.
The realization hit Fedora like a physical weight. " Now That would be fucked up," The thought made Fedora want to stop in his tracks, to pivot on his heel and head back into the night.
A flash of doubt and guilt flickered across his features.
He had labeled Miguel, built a mountain of assumptions and sharp-edged motives, all before he'd even attempted to sort out the misunderstanding.
Miguel didn't hear him judge and assume, but the proximity made Fedora feel terrible and exposed by his own judgment.
