He looked at the sky.
One more time.
The flat, assessor's look of a man who had been in warm water for the last hour and was now filing the inventory of what needed to happen next.
He stood.
The water ran off him in the specific, flat, present cascade of a man standing in a spring — the warm, mineral-dense, Herb Integration-seeded water running from his shoulders and his chest and down, the last of the warmth departing in the stream of it.
She felt him stand.
The specific, warm-water, full-body displacement that arrived when the person behind you removed their presence — the flat, thermal, absent warmth of water rushing in to fill where he had been.
She did not turn around.
She stayed where she was, her arms on the spring's stone edge, her chin at her forearms, her amber eyes at the realm's distant waterfall.
He dressed.
Robe. The flat, functional, single-motion arrangement of someone who had not stopped moving.
