She heard this.
Her entire brain, which had been running at significantly reduced capacity due to the ongoing situation, received this sentence and processed it.
She looked at the mountain across the pool. At the sky. At her own fingers, embedded four knuckles deep in solid rock like she'd been trying to hold the mountain in place.
She said, with the specific, devastated dignity of a woman who has been thoroughly unmade and is attempting to reassemble herself in real-time:
"'...I have a name.'"
He was still inside her. His hand still at her breast. His body still warm against her back.
"'What is it?'" he said.
A pause.
The mountain held the question.
"'...Rova,'" she said. Small. Unguarded. The first genuinely undefended word she'd produced all day.
His cock shifted again.
"'—NHH~—'"
"'Rova,'" he said, against her ear. Testing the weight of it. The specific name of a specific woman, spoken by a man who has noticed that it is a name that belongs to someone.
She trembled.
