She carefully slides out of the bed and pads over to the half-stocked dresser, pulling a tunic and pair of trousers from the top of first drawer she opens.

She squeezes into the tiny 'fresher and sets the dry clothes on the counter. Then she presses her chin against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him and leaning against his (wet, cold, and she doesn't care) side.

"Me, too." And honestly, it's not nearly as hard to say as it once would have been.

A quiet moment passes, and the relief--he's alright--is suffocating.

"Were you even armed?"