[ Fuck. Pure instinct tells him to flinch away, pull back as quickly as possible, but Konstantin controls himself before he can act that way. Instead he goes very still, eyes staying on Randvi's face. She.... felt it, didn't she, she had to. But she doesn't seem afraid, or disturbed. Probably she has no idea what to make of it; maybe she's stunned. But the question stuns him, and he stares at her for a moment longer before answering.

There's no sense in pretending he doesn't know what she's asking about, but how the hell does he.... handle this? Finally he's moving back, but it's it's slowly, calmly, taking a step or two away from the warmth of the woman's hand and pulling his shirt back down. ]

A little. But it's all right. I'm used to it. [ He tries to keep his cool, make everything seem less than it is, but the thing's already reacting to the absence of Randvi's hand and the comfortable warmth of what she can do, fitful, and he winces as he places his own hand to his abdomen, feeling it squirm inside of him — it's upset, confused. Another half-step back. He should leave. ]

I'm sorry, Randvi. There's something— wrong with me. With my body. I shouldn't have— I'll go.