She blinked.
"...what."
"You heard me."
She stared at him.
"I'm —" She looked at the window. At the city outside. At the ordinary, indifferent quality of the city doing its evening without consulting her. "I just — my husband just left. There is a report. My baby —"
"Is mine," he said. Quiet. The flat, factual quality of it.
She looked at him.
"—my marriage —"
"Meera."
"I can't — I literally cannot —"
His hand.
Found her breast.
That direct, no-preamble finding of it — his palm cupping the full, heavy weight of it through her blouse, the fingers closing around the swell. Her nipple pressed visibly against the damp fabric now.
She felt it.
The immediate, body-level event of his hand on her breast after everything that had happened today — the sensitivity of it, the fullness of it, that quality of milk that had been building all day with no release finding the pressure of his hand.
The milk.
