Something chilled her to the core when she saw him sitting there, her brain on a half-second delay because of fatigue and dehydration, tracking him from the chair to the back-breaking embrace too fast - but she didn't back away, despite the way her stomach clenched at the pressure. The nerves weren't helping the hangover. That had to be it. Had to be the reason for the subtle shakiness she felt in each fingertip that squeezed his shoulder in return. He was solid and immobile, every bit the tense and shining beacon of moral perfection he'd always been. Fuck this guilt.
"Dad, I'm--" she started, more breath in her voice than anything as she shrank out of the hug, or at least tried to. Throwing up on him wasn't going to help. "I'm fine, just--I'm really sorry..."