“No,” Padmé says, breathless but full of iron. “Hands on the floor.”

“’M supposed to be on duty,” Fox manages, and that argument probably would have worked better an hour ago, when he was being frog-marched out of his office as Thorn waved a solemn and mocking goodbye. It definitely doesn’t carry a lot of weight when he’s pinned between Thire and the tiles, real water running down his back and endlessly hot.