The cabin was silent for the precise half-second it took for those words to register.
Then:
Celia's thighs.
The specific, involuntary compression of them. Against her own hand. The body making its assessment before the brain had finished running its objections.
She felt herself.
Wet.
Not a little. Not the ambiguous moisture of a warm night and close quarters. The specific, unambiguous, entirely honest wetness of a body that had been listening and breathing the cabin air for forty minutes and had been doing what it had been doing the entire time.
She felt her face.
Nuclear.
She pressed both hands flat against the fold-out mattress and tried to remember how to have a normal temperature.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
"'HNMGH~♡♡ — AHN~♡ — I'm — I'm coming — I'm coming—'" Nara's voice breaking fully from any attempt at quiet, the specific, uncontained quality of a body at its limit. "'—coming—HNGH~♡♡♡—'"
The bed.
Three feet away, the bed shook.
