Grumpy wasn't even the right word for it.
Darien sat behind his desk like a storm that had forgotten how to rain, dense, unmoving, and vaguely threatening to anyone foolish enough to wander too close. The blinds were half-drawn, the light slicing the room into sharp angles that didn't soften his expression in the slightest. If anything, they made the shadows under his eyes look worse. Deeper. Earned.
Theron noticed immediately.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, a tablet tucked under his arm. "So," he said lightly, far too lightly for the atmosphere he was walking into, "who messed with you this time?"
No response.
Theron raised a brow. He crossed the room and placed the tablet on the edge of the desk, tapping it twice for emphasis. "Because unless someone declared war before nine a.m., I'm going to assume this", he gestured vaguely at Darien's face, "is personal."
Darien didn't look up.
