The phone on the coffee table buzzes, the screen lighting up with Arjun's name, and the sound cuts through the dim air like a blade. Savina's breath catches; Raju's hand stops mid-motion on her hip, his fingers still warm through the thin silk of her blouse. She stares at the device as it vibrates against the wood, the noise too loud in the quiet room, the name glowing steady and familiar. The call goes to voicemail, and Arjun's calm voice fills the space — Just checking in—let me know if you need anything for dinner — before the line clicks dead.
The silence that follows is heavier than the ringing was. Savina meets Raju's eyes, the unspoken question hanging between them like smoke, and she watches his jaw tighten as he stares at the dark screen. Her throat works, but no sound comes out. She reaches for the phone slowly, her fingers brushing the cool glass, and she sees her hand is trembling.
"He never calls this late," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Unless—" She stops, the thought unfinished, too dangerous to speak aloud.
Raju shifts beside her on the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. His hand slides from her hip to her knee, a steady pressure, grounding. "Unless what, Ma?"
The word lands soft — Ma, not Savina — and she feels the split in her chest, the place where mother and lover live side by side, bleeding into each other. She looks at the phone again, the screen dark now, and her thumb hovers over the callback button. "Unless he knows something."
"He doesn't know."
"You can't be sure of that." She sets the phone down face-first, the glass clicking against the wood, as if hiding the screen will hide the truth it represents. "He's not stupid, Raju. He watches us. He watches us."
Raju's hand tightens on her knee, and she feels the warmth of his palm through the silk, the calluses from years of dance and training pressing into her skin. "He watches us act. That's what he sees. A scene. A performance."
"And the month in Panjim? The villa in Goa?" Her voice rises, a thread of panic weaving through the words. "What does he think we're doing there, if not—" She can't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.
He pulls her closer, his arm sliding around her waist, and she lets herself be drawn into the heat of his body. "He gave us permission. Both times. He trusts us."
"That's what makes it worse." Her voice cracks. "He trusts us."
They sit in the quiet, the floor lamp casting a single pool of light across the worn leather, the rest of the room swallowed in shadow. She can smell herself on him — her perfume, her sweat — and the intimacy of it makes her stomach turn. This is what they are now. This is what they've become.
Raju's hand moves in slow circles on her back, a soothing rhythm that feels more like a confession than comfort. "Do you want to call him back?"
She shakes her head. "If I call him now, he'll hear something in my voice. I don't know what I'd say."
"Say you love him."
The words hit her like cold water. She pulls back to look at him, searching his face for mockery, for bitterness — but his eyes are steady, dark and earnest in the low light. "I do love him," she says, and the truth of it burns. "That's the problem. I love him, and I love you, and I don't know how to hold both without breaking something."
Raju's jaw works, a muscle ticking at the corner of his mouth. "Then don't break. Keep holding both."
"For how long?"
"As long as we can."
She laughs, a hollow sound with no humor in it. "And when we can't?"
He doesn't answer. His hand slides up her back, fingers finding the nape of her neck, and he pulls her forehead to his. They breathe the same air, close enough that she can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the same eyes that looked at her across the dinner table his whole life, now looking at her like she's the only woman in the world.
"Then we face it," he says, his voice low. "Together. Like we said."
She closes her eyes. "He's your father."
"I know."
"This will destroy him."
"I know."
"And we're going to do it anyway."
His hand tightens on her neck, a brief pressure, and then he releases her, leaning back against the couch. The space between them feels suddenly vast, even though he's still close enough to touch. "We don't have to decide tonight. We have the shoot. We have Goa. We have—" He gestures vaguely at the room, at the life they've built inside the lie. "This."
She picks up her phone, turns it over in her hands. The screen is dark, but she can feel Arjun's voice still hanging in the air, his calm, trusting words repeating in her head. Just checking in. She types a quick reply — Everything's fine. We're just rehearsing. I'll call you tomorrow — and sends it before she can second-guess herself.
The message sends with a soft whoosh. She sets the phone down, face-up now, as if daring it to ring again.
Raju watches her, his expression unreadable. "Did you mean it?"
"Mean what?"
"That you love me. The way you said it. On the couch. Before—" He gestures at the phone, at the interruption. "This."
She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees the boy she raised and the man she's taken into her body, the son and the lover tangled into one impossible shape. "I meant it," she says, and the words feel like stepping off a cliff. "I love you, Raju. Not the way a mother should. Not the way a woman should love her son. I love you the way I loved your father when we first met — hungry and reckless and terrified."
His breath catches, a sharp intake of air, and she watches something shift in his eyes — relief, maybe, or surrender. "Then we keep going," he says. "We finish the film. We do the Goa shoot. And when it's over, we figure out what comes next."
"And if what comes next is nothing? If we lose everything?"
He reaches out, takes her hand, and brings it to his lips. His mouth is warm against her knuckles, his breath ghosting over her skin. "Then we lose it together."
She feels the tears coming before she can stop them, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away. She lets him see her break, lets him hold her gaze while she falls apart, lets him be the one who catches her.
He pulls her close, and she goes, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him — sweat and musk and something clean beneath it, something that still smells like the boy she used to tuck into bed. His arms wrap around her, and she feels his heart beating against her chest, steady and sure, and she lets herself believe, just for a moment, that this can work.
His hand slides up her back, his fingers finding the clasp of her blouse. "Let me take care of you," he murmurs against her hair. "Let me make you forget. Just for tonight."
She pulls back, her eyes wet, her lips parted. "And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, we rehearse. We act like nothing happened. We answer his calls and tell him everything's fine." He touches her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "But tonight, you're mine. Just mine."
She reaches for him, pulling him down to her, and she doesn't think about Arjun's voice on the answering machine or the life they're building on top of a lie. She thinks about the weight of Raju's body against hers, the heat of his mouth on her throat, and the way the world narrows to just this — just him, just her, just the space where they meet.
"Yes," she breathes, and the word is a gift and a confession and a promise all at once. "Make me forget."
His mouth finds her throat, hot and open, and she arches into him. Her blouse gives under his fingers, the buttons scattering across the floor, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything except the weight of him, the heat of his hands, the way he says her name like a prayer.
"Savina." He breathes it against her collarbone, and she shivers. "Let me have you. All of you."
She nods, her throat too tight for words. He lifts her, carries her to the couch, lays her down on the worn leather that still smells like last night, like them. His body covers hers, and she feels the full length of him, the press of his cock through his jeans, and she reaches down, fumbling with his belt.
"Slow," he murmurs, catching her wrist. "Tonight, I want to feel every second."
She bites her lip, her eyes locked on his. He takes his time: her skirt, her petticoat, the last scrap of silk between her legs. He kisses each inch of skin as he reveals it, his mouth dragging over her stomach, her thighs, the inside of her knee. She's trembling by the time he's done, slick and open and aching.
He rises over her, his cock hard and ready, and she feels the tip press against her entrance. He doesn't push in yet. He waits, his eyes finding hers, asking the question he already knows the answer to.
"Yes," she says again, the word strangled. "Please, Raju. Please."
He slides into her, slow and deliberate, filling her inch by inch until he's seated deep, and she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders. He holds still, letting her adjust, letting her feel the stretch, the fullness, the impossible rightness of him inside her.
And then the phone rings.
It's Arjun's ringtone — a soft, old-fashioned chime — and the sound cuts through the room like a blade. Savina's eyes fly open. Raju freezes above her, still buried to the hilt, his breath ragged.
"Don't," she whispers.
"It's him."
"I know." She takes a shaky breath, reaches for the phone on the coffee table, her hand trembling. The screen glows with Arjun's face, a selfie from last Diwali, smiling and unguarded. She swipes to answer, brings it to her ear. "Hello?" Her voice is thin, wrong.
"Hi, love." Arjun's voice is warm, unhurried. "Sorry to call so late. Just wanted to hear your voice before bed."
Raju moves. A single, shallow thrust, and she has to clamp her hand over her mouth to stop the sound. His eyes are dark, watching her, and he does it again, a slow roll of his hips that drags his cock against her walls.
"I—" She swallows hard. "I was just about to sleep."
"Good. You need your rest. How's Raju?"
Another thrust, deeper this time. Her toes curl. She grips the phone hard enough to crack the case. "He's fine. Sleeping. In his room." The lie comes automatically, and she hates herself for how easy it is.
"Good boy. Tell him I called. And Savina?"
"Yes?" She barely recognizes her own voice, high and strained.
"I miss you."
Raju picks up a rhythm, slow and relentless, and she has to bite her lip to keep from moaning. The room swims. "I miss you too," she manages, and the words are ash in her mouth.
"Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow. Love you."
"Love you," she echoes, and the word is a betrayal and a truth at once, and she hangs up before she breaks.
She drops the phone to the floor, and Raju is already moving, hard and fast, no more gentleness, no more slow. He fucks her like he's claiming her, like he's erasing the sound of her husband's voice from her memory, and she wraps her legs around him and takes it, takes all of it, because it's the only thing that makes sense anymore.
Later, when they're breathless and tangled, the sweat cooling on their skin, she presses her forehead to his. "The shoot," she says. "Tomorrow."
He brushes her hair back. "I know."
"The breastfeeding scene. And the —" She can't finish.
"I know." He kisses her, soft and closed-mouth. "We'll get through it. Together."
She wants to say something else, something about how far they've fallen, how the edge is coming, but she's too tired. She closes her eyes and lets him hold her, and she doesn't think about the tomorrow that's already waiting.
—
On set the next morning, the lighting is warm and amber, the bed dressed in cream linens. The director, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, explains the scene in a monotone: the breastfeeding shot, the slow build to a kiss, the moment where the camera stays on them as they cross into real intimacy. "The crew will be present," he says. "If you're not comfortable, we can close the set."
Savina looks at Raju. She reaches out and takes his hand. "No," she says. "Leave it open."
Raju's grip tightens. "We're ready," he says.
The scene begins with her on the bed, propped against pillows, her blouse unbuttoned. Raju moves to her, his mouth finding her breast with a reverence that feels real, his tongue circling her nipple, pulling, his hand cupping the weight of her. It's the scene they rehearsed, but this time the camera is rolling, and the crew is watching, and she can't pretend it's acting. Her hand moves to his hair, pulling him closer, and she hears herself moan.
The kiss comes next — deep, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against hers, and she tastes the salt of her own skin on his lips. Her skirt is pushed up, his hands on her thighs, and she knows what's coming, knows the script calls for him to enter her, knows the camera will catch every inch of it.
She doesn't care.
She opens for him, and he sinks into her in one smooth motion, and this time she doesn't hide the sound. She lets it out, a cry that fills the soundstage, and she hears someone gasp from the shadows. Raju's hands are on her hips, steady and sure, and he moves with the rhythm they've rehearsed a hundred times, but this time there's no stopping, no cutting, no calling it a rehearsal.
The motion picks up. The slap of skin, the wet sounds, her nails raking down his back, his grunts in her ear. "Don't stop," she whispers, and he doesn't. The camera is right there, and she looks into the lens, and she thinks of Arjun, of the phone call, of the life she's burning down with every thrust, and she doesn't look away.
She comes with a shudder and a sob, and he follows, his body tensing, his mouth on her shoulder, and the room is silent for a long moment.
Then the clapping starts.
It builds, scattered at first, then loud, filling the space. The crew is applauding, their faces a mix of shock and admiration, and someone wolf-whistles. The director is grinning, his hands together. "Perfect," he says. "That was perfect."
Savina lies still, Raju still inside her, his face hidden in her neck. She stares at the ceiling and feels the applause wash over her, feels the slow leak of him down her thigh, and she wonders, numbly, if Arjun would clap too.
Savina lies still, Raju still inside her, his face hidden in her neck. She stares at the ceiling and feels the applause wash over her, feels the slow leak of him down her thigh, and she wonders, numbly, if Arjun would clap too.
Raju shifts, softening inside her, and she feels the loss of him like a small death. He pulls back, his eyes searching her face, and she looks away.
"Hey." His hand finds her cheek, turns her back. "We did it."
"We did it," she repeats, and the words feel hollow, like something borrowed.
The director is already moving toward them, clipboard in hand, his grin wide and wolfish. "That's the take. That's absolutely the take. You two—" He shakes his head, laughing. "I've never seen anything like that. The camera was right there. You didn't flinch."
Savina sits up, pulls the sheet to her chest. "When do we wrap?"
"Tomorrow. Final scene's the balcony shot, but it's mostly dialogue. You're done after that." He claps Raju on the shoulder. "Go home. Rest. You've earned it."
Home. The word lands in her chest like a stone.
They fly back to Mumbai three days later, the film wrapped, the dailies already generating buzz in the industry trades. The flight is quiet, Savina staring out the window while Raju reads a script beside her, their hands intertwined under the armrest, hidden from the flight attendant and the other passengers.
Arjun meets them at the airport. He stands by the arrivals gate in his simple cotton kurta, his greying temples catching the fluorescent light, and when he sees them, he smiles—warm, open, trusting.
He hugs Savina first, and she feels the familiar solidity of his chest, the callused hands that have held her for twenty years. "Welcome home," he says, and his voice is honey and safety and everything she's betraying.
Then he hugs Raju, clasping his shoulders, looking him over. "You look tired. Your mother worked you hard?"
Raju's smile is easy, practiced. "She's a demanding co-star, Dad. You should see her on set."
Arjun laughs, and Savina feels the laugh like a knife.
Arjun laughs, and Savina feels the laugh like a knife.
She forces a smile, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. Raju's joke hangs in the air between them—She's a demanding co-star, Dad. You should see her on set—and Arjun's laughter is warm, genuine, the sound of a man who trusts his wife and son completely.
"I can imagine," Arjun says, slinging an arm around Savina's shoulders. "Come. I've made dinner. Your mother's recipe, Raju. The one you like."
They drive home in the old sedan, Arjun at the wheel, Savina in the passenger seat, Raju in the back. The city slides past the window—neon signs, auto-rickshaws, the familiar chaos of Mumbai—and Savina watches it all through a haze. She can still feel Raju's hands on her hips, the slide of him inside her on that soundstage, the applause that followed. She can still feel the camera watching.
At home, the table is set. Three plates, three glasses, a pot of dal simmering on the stove. Arjun moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, ladling rice, pouring water, and Savina watches him and thinks: He doesn't know. He has no idea what his son did to me on that bed. What I let him do. What I wanted him to do.
Raju takes his seat beside her, close enough that his knee brushes hers under the table. He does it casually, the way he's done it a thousand times since he was a boy, but now the touch feels like a brand.
"The director called," Arjun says, settling into his chair. "Said the dailies are extraordinary. Said this film will put you both on the map."
"He said that?" Raju asks, reaching for the naan.
"He said more than that." Arjun's eyes find Savina's. "He said the two of you have chemistry he's never seen. Raw, he called it. Unfiltered."
Savina's throat closes. Raw. Unfiltered. That's one word for it.
She picks up her spoon and eats, the dal flavorless on her tongue.
—
The film releases three months later. It opens to packed houses, and within a week, it's a blockbuster. The trades call it a phenomenon. The audience calls it something else—they call it real.
Savina and Raju's faces are everywhere: billboards, magazine covers, the side of buses. Their interview clips go viral—the way Raju looks at her, the way she touches his arm, the easy familiarity that reads as lovers, not mother and son. The fans eat it up.
At the first promotional event, a stadium filled with thousands, someone in the front row screams: Kiss her! Kiss her like you do in the film!
The crowd takes up the chant. It builds, a wall of sound, and Savina stands frozen under the hot lights, her smile fixed, her heart hammering.
Raju turns to her. There's a question in his eyes—Do we?—and she answers it with the smallest nod.
He cups her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, and he kisses her. It's not the chaste kiss of a son for his mother; it's deep, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that makes the crowd roar. His tongue sweeps across her lip, and she tastes the salt of the stage lights on his mouth, and she lets herself fall into it, her hand finding his chest, her fingers curling into his shirt.
The flash of a thousand cameras catches the moment. It runs on every news channel that night.
At home, Arjun watches the footage on the living room television. He doesn't say anything at first. He just stares at the screen, at his wife and son locked in that kiss, and when the segment ends, he turns to them.
"The public sees you as lovers now," he says, his voice quiet, measured. "That's good for the film. That's good for your careers." He pauses. "But you know the rule. On set, during rehearsals, at promotional events—you are actors playing lovers. In this home, you are mother and son. That line does not blur."
Savina nods, her throat tight. "Yes, Arjun."
"Yes, Papa," Raju says, his voice steady, his eyes on the floor.
Arjun's gaze lingers on them for a long moment. Then he smiles—that warm, trusting smile—and stands. "Good. Your mother's recipe for dinner tonight, Raju. I'll heat it up."
He walks to the kitchen, and Savina watches him go, and she wonders how long they can keep this up, how long before the lie cracks open and swallows them all.
—
The next film is announced within months. This one is more explicit—the director has made that clear from the first script reading. There will be a scene, a long continuous take, that requires full exposure. Raju comes to his father with the request.
"We need to rehearse, Papa. Alone. For a month." Raju's voice is calm, reasonable. "The scene is complex. We need to be comfortable with each other's bodies in ways that—" He stops, chooses his words. "In ways we haven't been before."
Arjun is silent for a long moment. He sits in his armchair, a cup of chai cooling in his hands, and he looks at his wife, then at his son.
"You understand what you're asking," he says. It's not a question.
"Yes, Papa."
Arjun sets down the cup. He rubs his temples, the way he does when he's thinking. "A month alone. In a rented space. No crew, no cameras. Just the two of you, learning how to—" He can't finish the sentence.
"We'll be professional," Savina says, and the lie tastes like ash. "It's a job, Arjun. An acting job."
Arjun looks at her. His eyes are tired, soft, full of a trust she doesn't deserve. "And when you come home? When the scene is filmed?"
"Mother and son," Raju says quickly. "Like always. Like it's always been."
Another long silence. Then Arjun nods. "Fine. I'll arrange the space. A villa outside the city. You'll have privacy." He stands and walks to Raju, placing a hand on his shoulder. "This is for your career. For both of you. I believe in you, beta."
Raju's smile is easy, practiced. "Thank you, Papa."
Savina watches them—father and son, the two men she loves in different ways—and she feels the ground shift beneath her feet.
—
The villa is a two-story house at the edge of the city, surrounded by palm trees and silence. It has a pool in the back, a modern kitchen, and a master bedroom with a king-sized bed.
Arjun drops them off on a Sunday morning. He hugs Savina, tells her to take care of herself, and shakes Raju's hand with a firm grip. "I'll visit when I can," he says. "Call me if you need anything."
Then he drives away, and Savina and Raju are alone.
The door closes. The lock clicks. Raju's hands are on her before the car's sound has faded.
"Ma," he breathes, and the word is a prayer and a sin all at once.
They don't unpack. They don't eat. They don't wait.
Raju's mouth finds hers, and it's nothing like the rehearsed kisses they've performed—it's hungry, desperate, the kiss of a man who has been waiting months to have her alone again. His hands are under her blouse, finding her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, and she arches into his touch, her fingers fisting in his hair.
The couch is wide, leather, cold against her bare thighs as he lays her down. His mouth travels down her neck, her chest, his tongue tracing the curve of her breast before his lips close around her nipple—sucking, pulling, the sensation sharp and electric and exactly what she's been craving.
"Don't stop," she whispers, and he doesn't.
He takes his time, worshipping her body the way he's learned to over the months of rehearsal and filming. He kisses down her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thighs. He parts her legs and lowers his head, and she feels his tongue against her—the first time he's done this, the first time he's tasted her like this—and she cries out, her hips bucking, her hands gripping the leather.
He learns her quickly. He finds the rhythm that makes her gasp, the pressure that makes her moan, the place where she falls apart. And when she comes, shaking and breathless, he crawls up her body and kisses her, and she tastes herself on his lips.
"Rehearsal," she says, her voice hoarse, and she laughs—a broken, giddy sound.
"Rehearsal," he agrees, and he's already hard against her thigh.
—
The days blur into each other. They rehearse in every room, on every surface. The script calls for intimacy in a bedroom, a shower, a pool—so they practice it all. Raju lifts her onto the kitchen counter and fucks her with the morning light streaming through the window. She straddles him in the pool, the water rippling around them, her back against the cool tile, his hands gripping her hips as she rides him. He kneels before her in the shower, his mouth on her breasts, her stomach, the slick heat between her legs, and the water runs over them both, hot and endless.
They rehearse the armpit scene from the script—a moment where his character buries his face in her arm, breathing her in, licking the sweat from her skin. Raju takes to it with a reverence that steals her breath. He lifts her arm, presses his nose to the hollow of her armpit, inhales deep, and she feels his tongue—slow, deliberate, tasting her—and she shudders, her knees weak.
"You smell like home," he murmurs against her skin, and she doesn't know if it's the character speaking or him.
At night, they collapse into bed, exhausted, and he holds her, his body curled around hers, and she pretends not to feel the guilt creeping in at the edges.
—
Arjun calls every evening. Savina answers, her voice steady, her body still flushed and slick from whatever they were doing.
"How's the rehearsal?" he asks.
"Good," she says. "We're making progress. The scene is coming together."
"Raju is taking care of you?"
She looks at her son, naked beside her on the bed, his hand resting on her thigh. "Yes," she says. "He's taking very good care of me."
Raju's hand slides higher, and she bites her lip to keep her voice even.
"I miss you," Arjun says.
"I miss you too."
She hangs up. Raju's fingers find her, wet and ready, and she doesn't think about her husband's voice. She doesn't think about the betrayal. She only thinks about the heat of her son's body, the weight of his breath, the way he knows exactly how to touch her.
—
On the tenth night, they rehearse the dinner scene—a slow, intimate meal where the characters feed each other, kiss between bites, and eventually make love on the table.
Raju has set the table with candles and real plates, a bottle of wine breathing on the counter. He's wearing a button-down shirt, open at the collar, and he's lit by candlelight, and she feels like she's seeing him for the first time—not her son, not her co-star, but a man.
"Come here," he says, and she does.
He feeds her a grape, his fingers lingering at her lips. She takes it, her mouth brushing his fingertips, and she watches his eyes darken. He leans in and kisses her, the grape still half in her mouth, his tongue finding the sweetness, and they chew it together, the juice spilling between their lips.
They eat slowly. They talk about the scene, about the blocking, about the camera angles—and between it all, they kiss. Long, deep kisses that taste of wine and salt and hunger. His hand finds hers across the table, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.
When dinner is over, he stands and pulls her to her feet. He clears the plates with one hand, his other arm around her waist, and when the table is empty, he lifts her onto it. The wood is cool under her thighs. He spreads her legs and steps between them.
"This is the scene," he says, his voice low. "But I'm not acting."
"Neither am I."
He fucks her on the dining table, the candles flickering, the wine glasses still half-full, and she comes with his name on her lips—not the character's name, not her son's name, but his name, Raju, a prayer and a sin and a confession all at once.
—
Afterward, they lie tangled together on the cold floor, a blanket pulled over them, the candles burning low. He traces patterns on her skin, and she stares at the ceiling, and she thinks about how far they've fallen.
"What happens when this month is over?" she asks.
His hand stops moving. "We go home. We film the scene. We go back to being mother and son."
"Can we?"
He is quiet for a long moment. Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks at her, his face half in shadow, half in candlelight.
"I don't know, Ma. I don't know if I can pretend anymore."
She closes her eyes. She doesn't have an answer.
—
The final week of rehearsal, Arjun visits. He arrives on a Saturday with groceries and a smile, and Savina greets him at the door, dressed in a simple salwar, her hair still damp from a shower she took to wash the evidence of the morning off her skin.
Raju is in the kitchen, making chai. He hugs his father, easy and warm, and the three of them sit in the living room like a normal family.
"You look thin," Arjun says to Savina. "Are you eating?"
"Raju feeds me well," she says, and the double meaning sends a flush up her neck.
Arjun stays for dinner. He compliments the rehearsal space, asks about the scene, watches as Raju and Savina go through their blocking—chaste now, professional, the way they are in front of him. He nods approvingly. "Good. You've found the rhythm."
When he leaves, he hugs them both. "I'm proud of you," he says. "Both of you. This film will be your masterpiece."
The door closes. The car pulls away. Raju's hand finds Savina's, and she doesn't pull away.
"One more week," he says.
"One more week," she repeats.
They go back to the bedroom. They don't stop for the rest of the night.