Words won't come and so he nods, a shift of his forehead against hers, as he also tries to catch his breath. He feels in awe of her, running through the night in his mind. Amelia, taking charge when he'd been too helpless with worry to do so, giving him the chance to collect himself. Amelia, a guiding hand to what needed to be done, no doubt or questioning of if it was the moral thing, only the just thing. Amelia, covered in blood and coolly wiping her blades, carrying corpses with all the practicality of taking out the trash. Amelia... Dearest, daring, adamantine-willed Amelia who can take down a man twice her size with ease but blushes like a wilting flower at the idea that she could be treated as precious.

She is that, to him. Precious. Like a gem, hard and sharp and beautiful, forced under pressure into a shining beacon. She shines in his eyes and he'll give her all the time in the world if it means she'll allow him to touch her again, to whisper gentle words and light soft touches to her skin. She's a warrior, a fighter, and simply because she is these things he wants to show her an entirely other sort of glory.

He waits, unable to stop himself slowly carding his fingers through her hair, a hand on her shoulder in the warm spray, until she can breathe again.