He takes in a soft, quick breath as she inspects him by touch. It's not the most intimately they've touched, not after the beach on Scarif and the way she'd nearly flung herself at him earlier, but the darkness fills the space with implication and impossibility. For a second, Cassian closes his eyes and pretends that the touch is under different circumstances. They aren't hurting and broken and he's not someone who's lied to her. In the dark, they can be better people.

"Might have," he says, sounding doubtful.

Cassian doesn't make any mention of it but he moves himself as far to one side of the narrow bed as he can, making room just big enough for the small body of a girl who's eighteen centimeters shorter and slighter. It's a space big enough to pretend that they're better people, more whole.

"I can't remember the last time I was so injured I didn't want to eat." It's not a good joke because he'd always lived somewhere just above subsistence and likely so had she.