"Oh," Poe huffs, amused. "Well, then." There's the blunt intel agent he'd ferried into the system, but even then Andor's response doesn't feel quite so ... cold. Besides, he can't really fault the man his lack of curiosity outside of the mission at hand -- it's only Poe's own ego that protests. And that's amusing, too, if only for the fact that he's having a hard time processing why it feels like it matters.

Just a little bit of competitiveness, he figures; he might not be General Organa's brightest undercover agent, but he's her best pilot by a landslide. Andor? Definitely a mystery, but he supposes there's a reason he's here to play ferryman at all, and it's not because Andor felt the need for witty conversation to pass the time. "Suppose that means you were satisfied enough," Poe murmurs, "unless the General strongarmed you. Like she does."

As if that isn't the understatement of the century.

Poe breathes in, and only slightly regrets it. He's a little startled by the lack of tension in Andor's body, wishing vaguely that he could emulate it, but he's still chilled, still shivering despite the sense of being half-curled against a living furnace. "Sure," Poe admits. "I'm only allowed to admit that this is nicer because my astromech is on the other side of the galaxy. You know, he's not much for cuddling either, now that I think about it."