It occurred to Mando, a few days after the Klatooinians had been driven out, that he was spending way too much time with Omera.

What, had he lost his mind? For that matter, had she gone mad for allowing it?

He was taking walks with her in the evenings, after supper, leaving the kid with his enthusiastic young babysitters. Sometimes he didn't even talk, but would just listen to Omera's soothing voice telling him stories about her family and farm life. Some of the stories were hilarious or bizarre… or both. The one she was currently telling him made him have to stop and catch his breath.

"… husband was accidentally caught up in a thresher… she obviously didn't mean to run him over with it, but she got back home that evening to make supper and he wasn't around, and she went looking for him, but he had apparently just vanished. So later she and the farm workers were going through the grain and suddenly she said, "Oh, wait, this is a piece of Tiko's shirt… and this is a piece of Tiko's trousers… and this is a piece of Tiko's arm… "

"Stop, stop," he finally said, unable to contain his laughter. "You have got to be making that up."

"I'm not. It really happened," Omera said, her expression sincere, but there was a wicked little sparkle in her eyes. She frowned and made a box with her hands. "His coffin was really, really small… "

He had to sit down then, and dropped down onto a fallen log. He hadn't really had a good laugh in a long time, and she looked pleased to be the one to lighten his mood.

What amazed him was that he never got tired of listening to her. What she said mattered; she had a way of cutting right through the crap and getting down to the point, and he learned a good deal about her childhood and her marriage, both of which had been happy and uncomplicated. All in all, she was a steady, level-headed and practical woman with an understanding heart and a puckish—and occassionally wicked—sense of humor.

Omera gestured with her hands when she talked, and was a born story-teller, holding his attention better than anyone he had ever known. He never felt compelled turn off the mic in his helmet around her, as he often did with other women when they started prattling, and he even found himself relaxing to the point of being languid, which was another thing he had never done before. Besides, Omera never prattled.

Once he had recovered from the story, they continued walking along the edge of the settlement until they came to a small orchard of various fruit trees planted near vegetable and herb gardens.

"My husband and I planted these trees here," she said, pointing to a small group of some sort of fast-growing fruit trees loaded with rich harvest ready for picking. "Grinjers don't like the fruit, so we always have plenty, and it was his favorite. I use the flesh for pies and with the ones that fell on their own, I make a kind of sweet cider that Winta loves." She reached up and snatched a round, red fruit from a low branch. She extracted a small, curved knife from her pocket and expertly cut into it and started to hand him a wedge. "Oh… sorry. I forgot you can't take the helmet off."

"I can't… I just… "

"Won't, then."

He caught a brief look of hurt in her eyes and he winced. It wasn't as though he didn't trust her, because he did. He suspected he could trust her with his life. Among other things. But he couldn't stray off of the Way. Not even for her. "I'm sorry, Omera. I… "

"It's the Way, right?"

"Right."

She bit into the piece of fruit and he felt a bit light-headed and wondered, for the millionth time, if her lips were as soft as they looked and if her skin would feel like silk. Just last night he had dreamed about lying in her bed with her, with her arms and legs hugging him, urging him on, and he had awakened to Omera calling to him from outside the door, telling him breakfast was ready and he had been too embarrassed to get up until after she gave up and left.

The urge to touch her was overwhelming, and his increasingly fevered dreams about her were anything but helpful with regard to his resolve and self-control. Watching her eat the wedge of sweet fruit—while pretending to watch some furry animal jump from one of the trees to another—he really wished he was that damned piece of fruit.

She turned away and stumbled over a root. He caught her arm, pulling her back around so she wouldn't fall, and for the briefest of moments her hands were on his chest, but the beskar prevented any real contact, and he felt so miserable he couldn't even put words to it.

She stood, gazing up at him with those lovely brown eyes.

Self-control. Duty. Honor. Tradition.

All those might just fall away, or their meanings could change entirely, if she ever really touched him. If she ever did touch him, he wouldn't want her to stop. He needed to find that barrier again and put it back up or he would end up hurting her, and he would never be able to forgive himself.

He struggled to regain his composure. "You're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I can't remove my helmet," he told her, hideously aware of the plea in his voice, glad and miserable that he was wearing it, because she would see the longing he was feeling.

"I know," she said softly.

Why did she have to be so understanding? She had accepted him from day one, and didn't judge him or get angry at him or throw pots or apply some very well-aimed blaster shots at him being such a closed-off idiot, and most nerve-wracking was that she wasn't even vaguely afraid of him. He suspected she could give him what-for if he ever pissed her off, and he knew he would never, ever strike her in self-defense. Maybe he'd just get her on the floor and tickle her into submission… and then do other things to her until his longing was satisfied. Things that were probably a hundred times more delicious than that fruit she was eating.

He wanted to tell her that he could only remove the helmet in the presence of his own wife or children, but he had no wife or children, unless one counted the kid. But if he told her about that exception to the rule, he would end up fumbling through probably the most awkward, boyish proposal in history and if she was half as sensible as he thought, she would turn him down and he would never recover.

He was losing his mind. He wanted her. So badly it made him ache. Until now, he was accustomed, if not totally resigned, to his loneliness, and yet here he was, standing in the woods with a woman who kept invading his dreams. Until her, he had never had any fantasies (delusions?) about love or romance or the kind of real intimacy that made all of that come together right. The kind of closeness that would result in children and a home and peaceful sleep with a warm body beside him and no need for armor or helmets.

It was getting dark, and he didn't like the risk of some kind of forest creature attacking her—he had not yet seen a living grinjer, but the dead ones he had seen were just about the ugliest creatures he had ever encountered, and were apparently ferocious. Fortunately, they were also so stupid that a person could walk up behind one and bonk it on the head with a stick, but they usually stayed up in the trees.

"We should start back."

She smiled at him, making his heart constrict and twist, and walked away toward the village. He stood there for a long time, then angrily punched one of the trees. A fruit fell, landed on his helmet and fell to the ground. He growled at the tree, the fruit, the sky and his own weakness. One of the more unsociable elders of his clan had told him that love equaled weakness, but he had never really believed that. No, it wasn't weakness at all. It was simply a matter of not having the strength to give or receive it.

He needed to get out of here or he would reach the end of his resolve and go mad. He would leave the kid with Omera, and knew he would enjoy life on Sargon and be raised by warm, loving people. He would tell Cara he was going, and he would tell Omera and he would start running again and cut her out of his heart and mind and his dreams. Ruthlessly… even brutally, if necessary, because he knew no other way but the Way, and while that would never give him any degree of peace or contentment, at least he was familiar with it.

So resignation really could make a man a coward.

He snatched up the fallen fruit and strode back to the barn, growling to himself. Inside, he closed the door and removed his helmet, needing to breath clearly and rub his eyes and tell himself again that he didn't want to stay, and that he didn't want this life and that he didn't love Omera, dammit. He fumbled around for his knife and cut the red fruit into wedges and sat on his bed. The kid, awakened by Mando's arrival, cooed at him, and he cut a piece for him. The boy chewed on it in a disarmingly thoughtful way, and immediately reached out for another piece.

"You like sweet stuff too? Not suprising—you seem to like anything edible. Or even stuff that's not edible. Like spanners and electric wiring." The boy took another piece and ate it happily, chittering at him and making that purring sound he made when he was particularly pleased. "You'll like it here. You couldn't be with better people. I know she'll take you in—she's like that. I suspect she'd take me in, too, but… " He sighed and rubbed his face, then removed his armor and settled on the makeshift bed, stretching out, and wasn't at all surprised when the kid climbed out of the crib and shuffled up to the side of the bed, arms up. Mando sighed and picked the boy up and settled him down beside him. The boy kicked him in the ribs a couple of times, cooed and gabbled at him for a moment, and finally went to sleep.

Mando didn't sleep. He was afraid to. One more erotic dream about Omera and he would have to give in.

He would leave tomorrow. It was the only Way.