A good one. [She huffs back with a dull, childish scoff from over the lip of her beer. It's empty by now, and the hollow insides seem to echo out punctuation for her moderately exasperated train of thought.

She knows him well enough.

Her heels drop from the edge of the hover-desk, chair swirling back around as she chucks the empty bottle into the nearest bin— it tips sideways from the force, spilling out onto the floor.

She'll get it later.] The shipments can wait a few more days. Pérez doesn't need them until...what was it, the fifth?

He'll survive.

[And then it's back to steady typing, keys chirping softly under pressure.]

Left you beer and some takeout in the fridge. Consider it payment.