He felt her hand against his back through the fabric, cold against the fever of his skin. His arm was still throbbed, the venom of the wound flowing through his veins, and it was a strange, dizzying feeling to stand and watch the shadow move while feeling the contrast between ice and fire. A touch like a feather. Like a swan.
"I don't know," Zach whispered. "It's..." And he had no words for it then, nothing but a fumbling hand to reach back and take hers in large, strong fingers, callouses sweaty as they wrapped around her skin. As they watched, he took a step back, leaning down, then said, "It's like glass. Like watching glass spun, thrust into the furnace and fucking... fucking transformed."