Chapter Seven: Iris Morris

The lights hummed.

Not loud. Not soft. Just there—constant, buzzing, wrong.

They pressed against her skull, vibrating through bone and thought alike, like they were trying to keep her awake even as her body fought to disappear. Somewhere, far away, a machine beeped in uneven intervals. Too fast. Then too slow. Then fast again.

Someone was speaking.

A woman’s voice. Controlled, but threaded with strain.

“Blood pressure’s falling again.”

Another voice followed, deeper, clipped, professional. “She’s not responding to fluids.”

A third voice—sharper this time. Urgent. “We need to move faster.”

Move faster.

The words drifted toward her, bumping into one another without meaning. She tried to grab onto them, but they slid through her mind like water through open fingers.

Her body felt… heavy. Anchored. As if gravity had increased without warning and pinned her down from the inside.

Something twisted low in her abdomen.

Pain flared—hot, sudden, terrifying.

A breath tore out of her chest, sharp and involuntary, and her fingers curled weakly against the sheets.

“There—did you see that?”

“She moved.”

Gloved hands pressed against her stomach. Not rough, but firm enough to make her want to cry out. Cold seeped into her skin. Antiseptic. Plastic. Latex.

“Miss,” someone said gently, close to her ear. “Can you hear me?”

Miss.

The word echoed.

Miss what?

Her name hovered just out of reach, like it was waiting on the tip of her tongue but refused to be spoken. She knew she had one. She knew it mattered. But every time she reached for it, pain pulled her back under.

Another cramp ripped through her, stronger this time, dragging a sob from deep in her chest.

“She’s bleeding.”

The room seemed to freeze around that single word.

Bleeding.

A pressure built inside her, heavy and wrong, as if her body was trying to rid itself of something it couldn’t protect. Fear surged—not sharp, not clear, but deep and instinctive.

No.

The thought came unbidden, raw and desperate.

No, no, no—

“She’s pregnant.”

The voice was quieter now. Careful.

The air shifted.

“What?” someone asked.

“There’s a fetal heartbeat,” the voice continued. “Faint. But it’s there.”

Heartbeat.

Something in her chest clenched painfully, as if her body recognized the word before her mind did.

“How far along?”

“Six weeks. Maybe seven.”

Silence stretched—thick, heavy, loaded.

“And the bleeding?”

“Significant.”

Her breath came shallow now, uneven, like her lungs had forgotten how to do their job properly. Darkness pressed in from the edges of her vision, curling inward.

“Miss,” the nurse said again, firmer now. “Stay with us. Please.”

Stay.

She wanted to.

God, she wanted to.

But the pain surged again, white-hot and relentless, and her body arched weakly off the bed before hands restrained her gently but firmly.

“No—don’t let her move.”

“She’s hypotensive.”

“We’re losing her pressure.”

The words blurred together, stacking on top of each other until they became noise—too much, too fast.

Then—

Nothing.

“Her pressure’s unstable.”

“And the pregnancy?”

“If we don’t stabilize her, there won’t be anything left to save.”

The truth of it sat heavily in the room, ugly and unavoidable.

A shoe scuffed against the floor near the doorway.

“I can tell you her name.”

The voice cut through the tension like a blade.

Not loud.

Not rushed.

Just steady.

Everyone turned.

He stood just inside the doorway, tall enough that his head nearly brushed the frame. He looked out of place in the sterile brightness of the emergency room—too solid, too real. His skin was a deep, rich brown, stretched tight over a body held rigid with restraint. He wore dark clothes that looked slept in, wrinkled from hours spent pacing or driving or waiting for something that refused to come.

His eyes were what held them.

Dark. Almost black. Rimmed red, like he hadn’t slept in days—or like sleep had abandoned him entirely. They were locked on the bed, on the woman lying motionless beneath the tangle of wires and tubes.

“Iris,” he said. “Her name is Iris Morris.”

The nurse frowned slightly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

The doctor studied him more closely now—the clenched fists at his sides, the tension pulling his shoulders forward, the way his chest barely rose when he breathed.

“And you are to her?” the doctor asked.

A pause.

Long enough to be noticed.

“I’m family.”

The word settled into the room, unanswered questions trailing behind it.

The doctor nodded once. “She’s pregnant. There’s been heavy bleeding. We’re trying to stabilize her, but she’s at risk of miscarriage.”

The man’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered—just once—to her abdomen, then back to her face.

“Can I see her?” he asked.

“She’s unconscious.”

“I know.”

“She may not—”

“I know,” he repeated, softer now. “Please.”

The nurse hesitated, then stepped aside. “Just for a minute.”

The curtain rustled softly.

He didn’t move at first.

Seeing her like this—so still, so pale—hit him harder than he’d expected. Harder than the news. Harder than the fear that had clawed at him the entire drive here.

She looked… breakable.

Tubes ran from her arms, machines blinking steadily beside her. Her hair was tangled across the pillow, her lashes dark against skin drained of color. Her lips were parted slightly, breath shallow, uneven.

He crossed the space between them in unsteady steps, one hand gripping the edge of the bed as if the ground itself had turned unreliable.

“Iris…”

Her name fractured on his tongue.

He sank into the chair beside her, long frame folding inward, shoulders caving under a weight he’d been holding back for far too long.

“Oh—God.”

His hands hovered over her, trembling. He didn’t know where it was safe. Didn’t know what he was allowed to touch. Didn’t know how much she could feel.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for her hand.

Warm.

Still warm.

The relief shattered him.

A sound broke loose from his chest—raw, broken—and tears spilled freely now, streaking down his face as he bowed his head over her knuckles.

“You scared me,” he whispered, voice thick. “You always do this. You disappear when things hurt too much.”

He let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “And I’m always the one trying to find you.”

Her fingers twitched.

Just barely.

His head snapped up. “Iris?”

Nothing.

He swallowed hard, nodding to himself like he understood. Like he wasn’t asking for too much.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t have to wake up yet. Just—stay. Stay with me.”

His grip tightened, careful not to hurt her.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Both of you.”

The machines continued their steady rhythm.

Outside the curtain, voices murmured. Plans were being made. Decisions hovering just out of reach.

Inside, the man who walked in as a stranger stayed exactly where he was—holding her hand, anchoring her to the world—refusing to let go.