The liquid.
Warm, considerable, the full, honest, comprehensive physiological output of a body that had reached the specific, absolute wall of what it had been building toward — her thighs locked around his wrist, her back off the ground, her voice producing a sound that had no shape except the shape of the event itself.
The arc hit the grass.
Warm. Real. The specific, honest evidence of everything the previous thirty minutes had been building, released all at once in the comprehensive, non-negotiable way that bodies released things when they had run out of the capacity to manage the release.
She fell back.
The full, heavy, specific fall of a body that had used up its structural reserves and was returning to the ground with the comprehensive, invested weight of someone who had been somewhere significant and was returning from it.
Her thighs unlocked.
Slowly.
