Her voice was the small, processing, present voice of a woman who had arrived at the end of her inventory of previous experiences and was standing at the edge of a category she had not been in.
"Tonight," he said.
He reached around her.
Both her hands — the flat, single, comprehensive grip of one hand collecting both her wrists and holding them together against the grass bank, her hands pinned at her front, her body forward-leaning against the edge.
"—you said you were mine," he said.
She breathed.
The pond water was cool and the night air was cool and he was warm and the specific, present, immediate warmth of him against her back was the only warm thing in the current inventory.
She looked at the grass.
At her own hands, held.
"Senior—" Very small. "Not—not there—I have never—you cannot—the size is—"
"Slowly," he said.
"—Please—don't—"
PAH.
'—HAANN~!!!—'
