This next parts quite short, but I think it doesn't work as well if its longer. I kind of feel I'm trying out different writing styles with this whole story, so apologies for the choppy, changing, but I feel it sort of works.
Lying there with her hand gently caressing the swell of her stomach, the question came.
'Who's the father?'
Her mind flashed back to easier times, poker, beer and the sofa, dirty dishes, mess on the floor. Random rockers, pounding music, cereal eaten, teasing, tender looks, feelings too strong, the hurt of goodbye.
It flitted forward to confrontations, accusations, hesitations. The pain of pushing away, denied feelings, other people, jealousy, hurting each other to ease their own pain.
It focused on a soft, gentle kiss in the snow, and the night that followed. A night of sweet, tender words and touches. Hands stroking her hair, her back, her thighs. Feelings so intense. More kisses, touches, sprinkled from her calves to her lips. Starting slow, turning passionate, the need to feel as one, to be so close, to amend all the wrongs. The love in his eyes as he came inside her. Going to sleep with him spooning against her, arms and legs wrapped tight, pulling her close, whispered words of love in her ear. The realisation in the small hours that it was wrong, that she wasn't free. Easing away from his hold, hoping not to wake him. Sneaking out of her apartment before the sun rose unable to face him. It was so wrong but for that night it had been so right.
And she flashed forward to the last time she saw him, in a wheelchair, unable to walk, injuries so severe. Pushing her away, unable to believe that she really cared. Because that's what she'd made him think at every turn. She, who cared so much had to pushed away the one person who meant the world to her, to preserve what she believed was morally right, but was proving so wrong.
'Who's the father?'
'Ray'
And with that one word it wasn't a secret anymore. No more would she deny her heart.