She looked at him.
"I want you," he said. Plain. Not decorated. The specific, plain sentence of want without architecture around it. "Particularly. Not someone else. You."
Her lips trembled.
"I'm pregnant," she said. As if he had not noticed.
"I know."
"Vikram—"
"Drove away."
The room.
He moved.
His hands at his own pants now — the button, the zip, the specific, practiced motion. The fabric loosening. The particular, gravity-assisted fall of it.
And he was — there.
The specific, same thing from the car, but now in hospital-room warm light rather than moving-city dark. The particular, unchanged reality of it — the thickness, the arch, the crimson head, the specific, still-present pre-cum at the tip.
Over her.
Looking down at her.
He placed himself against her.
