#devagha

It's odd how quickly a physical body adapts to chaos. Or maybe that's her constitution, hardened by years under Omar Saab's thumb. After the initial blows, Romeo's intervention, and a more honest rehashing of her life story as it pertains Lottie Rojas-Saab? She's exhausted, slumped into the her bed with pressure of a cloth keeping from spilling all over her Egyptian cotton sheets (one of her few luxuries). Funny how the mind works - how it hones in on peace, on facts, and cancels out the paranoia just to make it work. Her mind should be on the risks, the state of her father, anything else... And yet, all Amelia can focus on is the way her apartment feels too full.

"Yeah? What's happening--" She sits up in her bed when she hears the door rattle ever so slightly. Was it Lottie with news? Did her father somehow make it back? Where was Romeo in all of this? A million questions, and a dozen more when it's Devlin who appears. For once, looking out of place in the bedroom they papered with kisses and tangled limbs. It isn't the first time he's seen her vulnerable, and yet Amelia's pride can't help but croak out amidst her injuries as she shakes her head; "I promise, I'm not this much of a wreck all the time." She's quick to remind, as if he isn't a doctor whose job it is to save her from her own injuries. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, but what the fuck?" Explicit as the words were, they were said with a touch of hesitation and disbelief. Colored with a polite smile that's beginning to wane into curiosity, as she glances around her kitchen. It's late on a Tuesday, and for the third week in a row, Dev and Amelia find themselves abandoning a waiting room and incurring a hefty cancellation fee. The sort of reprieve that is glowing, feels good, and even challenging at times... Although, she's never imagined this kind of a challenge.

"Did you just reorganize my entire kitchen?" The mugs are on the floating shelf, arranged by size and color gradient. Stepping closer, she smells -- nothing? Not her lavender-scented cleaning agent, to be sure. And yet, everything is shining to the point of sterile. All her knick knacks and natural messiness put away, without permission. "Listen, thank you--" She doesn't sound too thankful, as she's adjusting her robe. "But you really don't have to do that."