Sprawled out like a cat across a ledge and limned in glimmering violet and blue, she breathes in and out for a few lazy beats, trying to process her own thoughts— the full depth of the situation and who she's with versus where her mind is clearly trying to wander to, riding the high of a night filled with tequila and dopamine— because yeah, fine. Maybe it's somewhat difficult to keep her composure up when she's so close to the both of them like this. A little too hungry, a little too used to getting her way.

Maybe it's better to let them lean on each other, then. York is better at it than she is by miles, after all.