His eyes track the droplet, like the tear itself has done something to offend him. Then my other eye betrays me, and his gaze moves over my face, sharp and assessing. Jaw popping, he pushes to stand, his tall, broad form towering over me. “What did he say to you?” His voice comes out rough, edged with something fierce. I blink, dabbing at my stupid, leaky eyes as I shake my head. “No. No. It’s not—” He goes to step past me, his focus like a laser down the hallway where Clyde is resting. “So help me, if Clyde made you cry, I’ll—” “Bash.”
