On her feet was a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. A bunny ear on one of them was askew, a clear sign she'd put them on in a rush.
"You're thirty-six years old," Murphy said, placing a hand on her shoulder, his voice tinged with exasperation. "And you still act like a little girl."
Instead of letting go, Eleanor hugged him even tighter, burying her face in his chest and nuzzling against him. Her voice was muffled, yet held a playful pout.
"I *am* a little girl! I am! No matter how old I get, I'll always be a little girl to my father!"
Murphy: "..."
He tried to pry her off, but Eleanor clung to him like an octopus.
"It's been so long since you came to see me, and you won't even let me have a hug?"
Eleanor looked up, her black eyes—identical to his—filled with accusation.
"The last time you visited was three months ago, and that was to see Mom. You only saw me as an afterthought! Are you actually here just for me this time?"
"Three months ago?"
