Boba doesn't flinch at the hand on his shoulder. He does shudder and suppress the instinct to grab one of the knives at stab it, though.

"Yeah." Boba stands and slides his hands, with the lighter still in his grip, into his pockets in one smooth motion. He gives a lingering look to the helmet before turning away.

He keeps his gaze to the floor. His eyes aren't wet, he knows better than that, but his voice is more hoarse than he'd like. A part of him resents Miguel for being there-- resents himself for not making him leave.

It's too late to change now. Boba waits for Miguel to lead him to wherever the flowers are.