I expect her to tell me to leave again, but with no preamble, she turns and crawls into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and dropping her head on my shoulder. Then she sobs. And I hold her.
She stares at Rhys, her gaze dropping to the sleeve of black tattoos that scroll up one arm. Then she mutters, “Fuck my life,” and leaves the living room without looking up from the floor.