His fingers at the strap of her bra.
The specific, practiced motion of someone who had done this before — the strap eased down her shoulder, the cup following, the fabric peeling away from the specific, full, warm weight beneath it.
Her breast.
In the warm hospital room light — the specific, changed architecture of a nursing body. Fuller than it would have been a year ago. The skin carrying the particular, fine-line map of veins beneath the surface, the green-blue tracery of them visible in the pale, milky skin, the specific, delicate cartography of a body preparing to feed someone. Her nipple — already erected, the specific, tight, hardened point of it, and at the very tip, the small, warm gathering of milk at the surface. A single drop, forming.
He looked at it.
She watched him look at it.
"Don't—" she said. Very quiet.
He leaned down.
His mouth.
"AH—"
