Quackity father

It was getting late.
Quackity sat behind his desk, staring at the same papers he’d been pretending to read for the past hour.
He checked the clock again.
Still nothing.
You hadn’t come back yet.
He tried telling himself it wasn’t a big deal. You were old enough to take care of yourself. You knew how to handle yourself. There was no reason for him to panic.
…Right?
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“They’re fine,” he muttered to himself. “They’re probably just out.”
A few minutes passed.
He checked the clock again.
His fingers tapped impatiently against the desk.
“Could’ve at least sent me a message…”
He hated how familiar this feeling was—the uncertainty, the waiting, the horrible thoughts that crept into his head whenever someone he cared about didn’t come home.
Quackity stood up and began pacing around the room.
He was angry.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
It was easier to be angry than worried.
He picked up his phone again, staring at the screen before typing out a message.
“Where are you?”
He deleted it.
He typed again.
“You better have a good excuse for being out this late.”
Delete.
Finally, he sighed and typed:
“Hey. You okay?”
He stared at the message for a moment before sending it.
“…Come on, kid.”
His voice was quiet.
“Just let me know you’re alright.”