They were still flying.

This was flying, wasn't it? It was. With his head spinning like chopper blades and there was the steady thrum of the rotor in his chest and her hands were probably some sort of equally cliché shit like the sky wrapping around him, only it somehow didn't seem cliché. It just was however it felt like it might be. So they were flying, and her hands were the sky, and he wasn't flying the chopper so much as it was flying them, and he was too wrapped up in her lips and her hands and her breath to be able to stop and pick apart reality from the metaphor.

And he'd have to breathe. Eventually.