She lets out a short, sharp sigh. And you're here with me now.

Dejah drags her hands through her hair, and stands, moving with a purpose. She steps to her workbench, grabs the top sheet of parchment and brings it back, coming to sit beside him.

She pushes the tea tray out of the way, weights down the curling edge with her own mug.

"First pass."

Give her a moment and the rage and sickness will pass. The odd relief and the wash of guilt.