"Speak for yourself," she mutters, returning for the blanket. Jess swats at the lingering moths circling above her head until most of them are gone or dead on the ground. The swings the blanket round her shoulders to ward off the chill that's pushing into the corners of her house. The tea will keep her warm while she lets the place air out for another good fifteen minutes, at least.

Approaching him for the prospective antidote, Jess takes the cup and sniffs the steam pouring upward. "This stuff never works on me -- 'calming chamomile,' sleep blends, that kinda crap." So she's not expecting much, for several reasons. Sighing, "Here goes," she has a careful sip, a single drop, and scalds her tongue.