You’d been sulking on the other side of the couch for half an hour, arms crossed, jaw tight. I didn’t apologize — even though maybe I should’ve. Then you shifted, crawled right over and dropped into my lap, your face pressed to my neck. “Still mad at me?” I whispered. You huffed. Didn’t answer. But your hand slid under my shirt and your nose bumped my jaw. So… I guess that was your apology.