Maeve was pathetic in her current state. So pathetic, in fact, that she came running back to her ex-wife’s apartment with her metaphorical tail between her legs. Every part of her body was throbbing, fist clenched tightly as she raised her arm up to rap her knuckles against the wood of your front door.

She’s got a migraine, and she’s shifting uncomfortably, rubbing her legs together and letting pathetic little whines escape from her throat as she restlessly waits for you to open the door—which she’s praying to whoever’s listening that you will.

Just as she’s about to start banging on that stupid goddamn door, it swings open and there stands a confused-looking you. “Oh, baby,” she sighs, inhaling your scent and practically deflating as she places her hands on your hips.