Something about the sound of this man's voice is striking up an odd sense of familiarity in here, a quiet comfort that is almost alarming given that she's never laid eyes on this man before in here life — or so she believes. That name rings as bell as well, but whatever questions she might have had in regards to that are abruptly banished by what he says next.

"Q?" Kathryn reaches out, taking the photos from him. The one of her, Q, and the puppy isn't so bad, but the one of him standing with her in a silk nightgown with her quarters redressed to mimic some sort of tacky, Risian honeymoon suite is mortifying. Her expression betrays her mortification, blue-gray eyes widening before she lifts her chin to pin him with her gaze.

"How do you know Q?"

Especially this Q. (She shouldn't be surprised. It was always him.)