Amira slowly regains consciousness, weary limbs half collapsed against the Mandalorian's bed. She can feel where he is sitting up, which means he's awake as well. It all starts coming back to her in pieces: the village, the colonists outside, the need to escape…

She tries to scramble back up to standing, but is stopped by a warm hand against her shoulder - Mithya's.

"The colonists have gone, Mithran has saved us," she gently praises - all of her previous fear now replaced with wonder and relief, which floods over Amira as she settles back against the bed.

"Her great statue collapsed on the thieves in front of the temple, and the few that survived left swiftly after." N'jnaro explains, "She has been standing over the village for hundreds of generations - it is truly a miracle."

There is a slightly humorous tone to his voice, and Amira can feel it aimed at herself. She realizes in the moment what she did - what she helped do. It's still not entirely clear exactly how she did it, but N'jnaro seems to understand she was somehow involved. But he and his wife don't question it, apparently happy to take miracles as they come.

"It's been quite a cycle for all of us, it seems," N'jnaro makes a sound with his hands that Amira has no idea how to replicate with only five fingers, "you should rest here for the night. The thieves won't be coming back. What's left of them at least."

"Where is…" Amira begins.

"We put the little one to bed already, in the old nursery just across the hall."

"Thank you." It's the first words the Mandalorian has spoken this entire time, but his polite words have a sense of finality that has their hosts leaving them for their own room. With only a quick "we're just down the hall if you have any need of us", Amira and the Mandalorian are left on their own.

A long silence follows. Amira stretches out her legs across the smooth floor, trying to shake the pins and needles from her lower half. Her side still rests heavily against the low bed, and she fights the urge to seek out her companion by touch. So much has happened so quickly, and it's tempting to reach for his solid presence. But she can tell from the heat of the blankets beneath her arm that he is still without his armor, and touching his bare skin right now would only add to dizziness that's still swirling through her head.

Her mind feels as though it's full of sand. She has never tried to touch anything inorganic like that, and she's not sure she'll ever attempt it again. Something there must have helped her - perhaps their goddess, or at least their belief in her. She never could have pulled down a statue big enough to crush over at least a dozen men on her own. At least she doesn't think she could have.

The sound of a long breath cuts through her thoughts and clears some of the sand from her mind. She can sense that her companion is about to ask what their hosts didn't dare to.

"Did the kid do all that?"

"Not exactly…" she's not quite sure she can even explain it herself.

"...did you?"

"Some of it." It's an honest answer, at least, if a little vague. She's a little vague on the details herself.

"Have you -" she can sense the start of a hundred different questions in his mind, but he settles for "has it happened before?"

She's not quite sure how to answer, so she tries for something to lighten the mood. "You don't get a 40,000 credit bounty on your head from being an Outer Rim diplomat's assistant."

"Hm." Is all the response she gets, and she can feel more questions swirling between them. She expects him to ask her what exactly she did, or how she did it - questions she can barely answer herself. But he doesn't. He doesn't ask any of the questions she imagines. In fact he doesn't ask anything at all for several long minutes. His voice is lower, softer, when he speaks again.

"So when you came with me on my ship, you could have gotten away at any point?"

"I don't…fully have control over it. So not at any point," she admits. "But yes, I probably could have escaped."

"Why didn't you?"

"More would have come for me," this, she knows for certain, "and you seemed nice enough."

He had been nothing like she expected a bounty hunter to be. There was no greed in him, no love of the chase or of violence. Just a strong sense of duty and a fierce protectiveness - she would later discover what he was so protective of. And there was a loneliness there too, one that matched her own.

"I'm not...I'm not a good man."

She turned towards the sound of his voice, waiting until she could feel him looking at her before she answered, "you're a better man than you think you are."

She paused, hoping to let her words sink in. Even coming as they were from a woman who was perhaps not so good as he once thought. But she felt no fear, no hesitancy coming from the man beside her. If anything, his sense of protectiveness only seemed to grow, settling around her like a comfortable blanket. But there is something else there too.

Before she can begin to guess at what it is, she hears him shifting, the sound of his breathing reaching her ears more clearly than before. He had removed his helmet.

"Are you hurt under there?" She jumps to ask - he had kept his helmet on the entire time he had been tended to. And he hasn't been left alone long enough to treat himself.

"No." His blunt response is softened by the huskiness of his real voice, the lack of modulation.

"You can check, if you're worried," he adds, more quietly.

And she isn't, not anymore. The smell of char and copper is fading, leaving only the light scent of perspiration and bacta gel. She can sense his pain only as a dull throbbing of stiffness and exhaustion, without the sharpness of real injury. But still he is inviting her to touch his face. To know him in a way she had been denying herself before.

She reaches out for his hands first, and he willingly takes her small hands within his much larger ones and pulls her up onto the bed to sit facing him. The warm, calloused skin she finds there is worth its own exploration, but it would have to wait. Once she is fully seated, her hip pressing into his legs through the blankets between, she allows her hands to carefully drift upwards, barely grazing against his arms and shoulders until they meet their target.

Her hands move to gently cup the sides of his face, at the rough stubble she had felt before but now has permission to explore more fully. The Mandalorian keeps himself perfectly still as her hands begin to brush cautiously across his skin. She guides her fingertips slowly to trace along the edge of his hairline, his ears, the hinge of his jaw. All places she has touched before, but has been careful not to try and put all together in her mind.

She pushes his hair back from his forehead, smoothing across the lines there. He is older than her, though not by much. It's one of her questions answered.

His brows are thick, straight lines leading to two deep furrows where they meet. She imagines his brows coming together in a frown of concentration all too often, though now his face is relaxed where her fingertips slide along the softened lines. There are other lines too, at the corners of his eyes, but these are finer. He doesn't smile nearly so often, which doesn't surprise her. The lines of her own face are not nearly so deep, either.

She can feel the soft flutter of his eyelashes against her fingers as she traces along his closed lids, internally measuring the distance between them and sensing the tiredness there - the obvious bags that a full day's rest don't even begin to diminish. She can't help but try and smooth them away, even though she knows she can't. His own hands move to her sides, just holding her there, not attempting to guide or halt her explorations.

But she can feel his eyes twitching to stay closed beneath her fingers, so she moves on to other parts of his face. She draws a single fingertip down from the furrows of his brow, straight along the lines of his nose and the gentle outward curve of it, before running into the mustache below. She smiles at the memory of how it tickled her lips.

With her thumbs she traces along his strong cheekbones, feeling a small twitch of the muscles beneath. He is trying not to smile, she knows, and she can't help allowing her own smile to widen. More twitching, and she nearly laughs in response, all pretense that she is checking for injuries completely out the window at this point. He is enjoying this nearly as much as she is.

Just to tease him she skips past his mouth, moving back down to his jaw, tracing along the squareness of it that has slowly become more familiar to her. She discovers a small, raised scar right beneath his chin that she wants to press her lips to, but she holds back. There will be a time for that later. She doesn't want to distract herself from the chance to map every centimeter of him, to hold him more firmly within her own mind. So she lets herself memorize the broadness of his chin, the hollows below his cheekbones, the lines around his mouth - his hands clutching more tightly at her sides as she moves inward. The dimples surprise her most of all.

Finally she reaches up to trace along his lips with fingertips still tingling from the rasp of his stubble. She can't seem to stop herself from allowing each finger the chance to run along his cupid's bow, down to the plushness of his lower lip and then back again until he finally reaches up to still her hands. He kisses at each of the captured fingertips before bringing them back to his cheeks, broad hands holding them in place there.

"Satisfied?"

She hums out an affirmative as he presses a kiss to each of her trapped palms. In the silence between them she hears the renewed celebrations from the streets below, the scent of bonfires seeping through the nearby window, which he turns to close and her hands are forced to release him finally. He seems to pause there, looking outside the window.

"We probably only have one more day before someone finds out we're here," he guesses.

And she knows he's probably right.

"Then let's have one day."