The interruption of a voice - soft, delicate, still lingering in the world of newly shed sleep - snaps Jyn's attention from the waters. She's grateful for it, the pull of it like a magnet against which she was quickly loosing her footing. But - for as quick as the gratitude for distraction floods her like lighting, guilt and shame are rush in after, trailing behind like thunder. She feels like a tempest, a gale unwilling, unable to be tamed. Which is appropriate for Jyn Erso (or had it be Liana Hallik? Or Tanith Pontha? Or Kestrel Dawn?), isn't it? Had she ever been anything but a destructive cyclone, blaster forced into her child-sized hand, sense of innocent and wonder snuffed out like her mother's life at the end of a blaster bolt?

Fingers reach out to curl themselves around the chilled mug he's offering, but the jade of her eyes will not rise to meet the sincerity of his. She murmurs a sound akin to a thank you, though it sounds more like the golden drop of a pebble breaking water than gratitude. The water of the fountain is replaced with the tea in the mug for her gaze, remembering how he'd offered her some of his personal stash when she'd arrived, cooked her food to help her regain her strength.

The tip of a finger curled around the cavernous part of the mug (the other clinging tightly to the handle) taps against the porcelain lightly, sending invisible, non-sensical messages to a far off ears in a far off place.

"How's your jaw?" she asks, voice sounding wholly unlike her own - no conviction, no fire, no strength behind it.