Michael's POV
Reagan stumbled through the door looking like he'd crawled out of a dumpster.
His shirt hung wrinkled and half-tucked, his tie dangled at an awkward angle around his neck. Hair jutted in every direction as if he'd run his fingers through it while sprinting up fifteen flights of stairs.
He moved with the frantic energy of someone who knew they'd already screwed up beyond redemption but still hoped to minimize the damage.
Despite being completely out of breath, he managed to plaster on that infuriating boyish grin. The same one he'd used since childhood whenever he thought charm might save him from consequences.
"Sorry about that," he gasped, yanking at his tie like straightening it would somehow fix everything. "Had a bit of an emergency situation, but I made it."
My head dropped into my hands, fists clenching beneath my temples. The anticipation I'd felt moments before twisted into something darker, more familiar. Pure, burning disappointment.
