Jo nods. Barely. That could be a nod or a semi-body waver, depending on how he looks at it. Jo's fingers are still a little too tight on the water. She still wants to put her head back between her legs. Which is why she doesn't do either. She forces herself to focus and does her damnest to stop the tremor in his skin. Denies her body the right to it by sheer fucking—exhausted, all but limp, and yet that last inch is still there, still steel, still hers, h e r, mental nails digging in and demanding with ever it of energy left, unrepentant toward herself in it even—force of will.

"It hasn't—that was the first time that happened."

This time, it's more defined.

Her nod in the direction they came from.

Not the wave of reaction, power, anger, focus. The feeling like the whole world lost gravity and her body lost all control, ownership, of having bones. A puppet with strings cut. If that had happened before, she'd have been a lot more freaked out long before now about what that could mean might happen in the middle of any fight.