What is that, like a nervous tic or something? Sinclair just washed that sweater, stop that.

He ignores it though, too hazy from sleep still to bother questioning him about something as unimportant as why he keeps sucking on his sleeve like a toddler.

"That's alright," Sinclair says over his shoulder as he puts on the water. "You rested earlier, least you got some sleep." Then, turning back around and leaning on the counter, "What is it you need to talk to her about so desperately, son?"