Clyde stared at the papers scattered across his desk, the edges curling from how many times he had flipped through them. His temples throbbed, a dull ache crawling behind his eyes. Numbers, reports, signatures… all useless when his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't stop thinking about Micah, about leaving him alone with Darcy in that quiet coastal city. The thought made his chest tighten. But Dean had messed up. Badly. And now Clyde was stuck cleaning the mess.
He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy in the quiet room. "What were you thinking?" His voice came out clipped, his patience hanging by a thread.
He had been training Dean to become his successor in a few years. Yet, the young man had made such a rookie mistake.
Dean stood a few feet away, shoulders drawn in, head lowered like a boy awaiting punishment. His hands twisted behind his back, fingers fidgeting restlessly, shame written all over his face. "I'm sorry, uncle," he muttered.
