She's drunk enough to feel the thickness in her lips, in her tongue, when the door opens, assuming for a moment - for once slowed, blinking at him as her brain caught up with his presences. Her voice low, dark, not so proper, like this: "a moment."

Lakshmi steps back once the door opens to let him in, ragged still from the exhaustion of it all but cleaned up. Her clothes simple long and covering, her hair falling to the top of thigh as she rakes it out of her way, pulled back from her face as she looks him over. "What brings you, Admiral?" Which is to say, she did not feel particularly glamorous to behold.

The quarters are as her people have set them up. Everything neatly ordered but lived in comfortably. Weapons set aside, but always within easy reach. Her discarded armour on the table that had been placed in the middle of the room with a silver plate that normally sat in the middle, with a low lamp that burned in the middle, pushed aside for the time being as the long sword that was her preferred working weapon, was laid out in it's place. The cloth beside it, stained with blood. The confession there - the length of time since it had finished, where she didn't know what else to do but clean it over and over again.

If there is trust there, it is in that she has let him in when she is like this at all.