Least scarred is a trick - it just so happens to be the thin, translucent skin over the bottom of the implant in his chest, his heart just under that space. There's no subcutaneous fat, not on his chest, his limbs, his face, his diet back home too lacking and even here it's lean and he doesn't consume enough calories, preferring to draw on the Force.

Muscle he has but it's not a healthy build. Not what what one would expect of the Empire's best weapon or technical number two.

And he might hand warned her to not fight the cold but he does fight the Light. It's more akin to trying to bathe a tooka - wriggling, pulling, threats of teeth and claws, less an attack and more an attempt to get away. Kriff he even tensed when she touched him, bracing. He's clearly not comfortable, tiny movements in his body as the Light, her Light, spreads through him, into the wound, into his femurs and pelvis to spread along producing blood, it itched.

Itched like falling into a patch of poison leaves and vines, itching and burning even if it wasn't a fire-burn. Somewhere deep and hidden inside him, like called like. Her light called to what he denied lived in him. At was like a star peeking from behind an eclipse, blindingly bright and sudden before slipping back behind the moon, almost completely covered, the smallest sliver remaining.

It said a lot about his discipline that he only squirmed a tiny amount.