He takes me in with a pained expression. “The hoodie-chic, blood-spattered, final-girl outfit suits you. The hair, not so much.” I pout. “But my stylist said it was so me.” “You deserve a refund.” He bends to kiss my cheek. “You look rough. Need a hug? Chamomile tea? A coloring book with some pencils? All of the above?”
