There was more where that came, if this went on. He was likely going to get self-conscious about his body, his age, her experience (or lack thereof), his own. In some ways, he was a fumbling teenager, arrested at nineteen when destiny had caught him up and finally dumped him, used up and wrung out, on this island. But he watched her touch his hand, and breathed out a sigh he hadn't been aware he was holding in. It had been a long time since he thought about anything, let alone meaningless things like how he looked or the fact he had no skin on his right hand. (It still retained enough feeling to give him some feedback, or it would be useless as a hand, but still.)

"Then again," he said softly, "one of the things I've been trying to teach you is that we shouldn't rely on the Force for everything." He wasn't ready to admit that Ben turning on him was part of some grand scheme.