[ She knows that's not true — that romantic notion. He's not invincible, their Poe, even though he might seem like it sometimes, with that damnably good luck. This whole thing — these agonizing past three days, they've been an all too poignant reminder of that. But she doesn't know how to articulate her fear, how unsteady it had made her feel — how to explain why she couldn't sleep and couldn't eat and couldn't do anything but miserably smoke the last few nights away, just waiting for any sign that he'd wake up and come back to them.

She's never been very good at that. She only knows how to play it off. How to let her wryness come to the surface over all the soft, vulnerable things she might have said instead. There's only the little things, like how she lingers when he touches her face, keeping herself close when it would be easy to pull away. ]

Famous last words, Dameron. [ There's her eternal wryness. ] Though, on second thought, it could be kind of hot to get a dressing down from the big guy. [ With a twinge of mockery: ] You'll have to let me know, after he comes in here to lecture you for almost blowing yourself up.