He should look at her then, some small desperate part of him thinks. Raise his eyes and meet hers, allow himself to be a hard immovable sort of wall. So bloody what if she says no? She may technically be his boss, but after this long of cleaning up the messes she's left he's due a bit of getting his way.

Instead he continues to flip pages, thumb trailing over marks in the margins and washed out black and white photos of lonely deserts. "Suppose I'd cross that bridge when I came to it then."