He’s about to respond when a cheerful prow prow prow noise draws our attention. And there’s Cleocatra, gunning for Rhys like he’s her best friend. She presses her forehead against his slacks, her tail curling around his calf as she rubs herself against him like a stripper on a pole. I giggle. “She loves you.” “The feeling is not mutual,” he grumps, standing frozen as he stares down at her.
