Chapter 2: The Confession
The silence after the door clicked shut stretched into hours, then days. Iris moved through her apartment like a ghost haunting her own life. She painted – furious, messy abstracts in bruised purples and angry reds – then covered them with white gesso, dissatisfied. The scent of lavender oil had vanished, replaced by the sharp tang of turpentine and the heavier, earthier burn of patchouli incense she lit obsessively. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a damp chill and the monotonous drone of a streetlamp humming outside her window, casting long, distorted shadows across the cluttered living room. Her belly felt heavier, the baby’s movements more insistent, like a tiny captive demanding release.
Shame was a constant companion, a sour taste in the back of her throat. She replayed that moment endlessly: the warmth of June’s hand under hers, the desperate whisper, the crushing withdrawal. She’d sent a single, stiffly formal text: Thank you for the session. Apologies for any discomfort. June’s reply, hours later, was equally professional: Of course. Routine check-in scheduled for Friday. Rest well. Friday felt like a century away. And terrifying.
The doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected, shattering the heavy quiet. Iris startled, knocking over a cup of now-cold tea. It was Tuesday. Too early for groceries. Not Theo, please not Theo. She heaved herself off the worn sofa, waddling cautiously to the door, peering through the peephole.
June.
Not in her usual practical scrubs. Jeans. A soft-looking grey sweater. Hair slightly windswept. Holding a large paper bag that smelled unmistakably of ginger and soy sauce. Iris’s heart slammed against her ribs. She fumbled with the chain lock, fingers clumsy with shock.
The door opened.
"Hi," June said, her voice softer than the professional tone of her text. A faint flush painted her cheeks. She lifted the bag slightly. "I was… passing by? Thought you might not have eaten well. Dumpling Dynasty? Their ginger-scallion noodles are supposed to be good for… well, everything."
Iris just stared, her mind blank. Passing by? At 8 PM? Dumpling Dynasty was twenty minutes out of June’s way. The scent of food suddenly made her ravenous, her stomach giving an audible gurgle. Embarrassment warred with a treacherous, blooming hope.
"You… you didn't have to," Iris managed, stepping back to let her in. The apartment felt instantly different with June inside it – smaller, warmer, charged.
"I know." June stepped in, her eyes scanning the room – the incense smoke curling, the half-finished painting shrouded in white, the nest of pillows still on the rug. "Just… wanted to check in." She avoided Iris’s direct gaze, heading towards the small kitchen island. "Forgot my pen last time. Silly." A clear, flimsy lie. Her pen case was visibly clipped to the outside of her bag.
Iris hovered, feeling enormous and ungainly. "You could have called," she said, the words coming out sharper than intended. Defensive.
June froze, her back to Iris as she unpacked containers. Steam rose from the noodles, fragrant and inviting. "Could have," she agreed quietly. She turned then, leaning back against the counter. Her eyes finally met Iris’s, and the carefully constructed neutrality Iris had seen Friday night was gone. In its place was something raw, unsettled. "Would you have let me in?"
The question hung between them, sharp and direct. The hum of the streetlamp outside seemed to intensify. Iris wrapped her arms around her belly, a shield. "I don't know," she whispered honestly. "I've been… mortified."
June pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. Not too close. "Don't be." Her gaze dropped to Iris’s hands clutching her swollen abdomen, then flickered back up. "Iris… what you said. What you… did. It wasn't just hormones. Or loneliness."
Iris felt her breath catch. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her own arms. "It wasn't?"
June shook her head slowly, a single dark curl escaping to brush her temple."No." A tremor ran through the word. She looked down, seemingly fascinated by the pattern on the worn rug. "I walked out that door Friday…" She paused, swallowing hard. "And I haven't stopped thinking about your skin under my hands since."
Silence. Thick, pulsating. The smell of ginger and soy collided with the patchouli, creating a strange, heady perfume. Heat flooded Iris’s face, her neck, spreading down her chest. Her heart hammered so hard she felt dizzy. She felt it too.
June took another step. Hesitant. Then another. Until she was standing right before Iris, close enough for Iris to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat. The professional distance was utterly dissolved.
"I shouldn't be here," June murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with conflict. "It's… complicated. Messy. I'm your midwife." She lifted her hand, hovering it near Iris’s cheek, not quite touching. Her fingers trembled.
"It is messy," Iris breathed. The air crackled between them, alive with unspoken need and terrifying possibility. She saw the struggle in June’s eyes – duty warring with desire. "But you are here." The baby kicked, a hard jab, a visceral reminder of the life demanding space between them. Iris didn't move away.
June’s gaze flickered down to Iris’s belly, then back up. Her trembling hand moved, not to Iris’s cheek, but down. Slowly. Deliberately. Through the thin fabric of Iris’s oversized tunic, her fingertips grazed the taut, stretched skin of Iris’s abdomen. Just above the prominent curve. A touch so light it was almost not there. Yet Iris felt it like a brand.
A soft gasp escaped Iris’s lips.
June flinched, her hand freezing. Her eyes snapped back to Iris’s, wide with a sudden fear – fear of overstepping, fear of misreading, fear of the sheer magnitude of this precipice. "Iris…"
Iris didn't let her finish. The desperate loneliness, the weeks of aching touch-starvation, the shock of reciprocated desire – it surged through her, overwhelming caution. She covered June’s trembling hand with her own, pressing it firmly against her belly. Holding it there. Feeling the warmth seep through the fabric, feeling the baby shift beneath their joined palms. Her voice, when it came, was rough, urgent.
"Don't stop this time."
The air crackled, thick with ginger and unspoken need. June’s hand was warm beneath Iris’s, pressed solid against the hard curve of her belly. Beneath their palms, the baby rolled, a distinct, undeniable pressure. June sucked in a sharp breath, her gaze locked on where their hands met. "Christ," she breathed, the word ragged.
Iris felt the tremor in June’s fingers intensify. Or maybe it was her own. The baby kicked again, a sharp jab against their joined touch. "She feels it too," Iris whispered, the words escaping before she could filter them. The intimacy of the moment was staggering, terrifying.
"Does she?" June’s voice was rough, her eyes lifting to Iris’s face, searching. Her thumb shifted slightly, tracing the faint stretch marks beneath the thin cotton of Iris’s tunic. The touch was deliberate, exploratory. Not clinical. Not anymore.
A shiver raced down Iris’s spine, landing low in her belly, distinct from the baby’s movements. Heat followed it. "Yes," she managed, her own grip on June’s hand tightening. "Feels everything." The scent of patchouli was suddenly overwhelming, mixed with the savory tang of the forgotten food. The streetlamp’s hum seemed louder.
June leaned in, just an inch. Close enough for Iris to see the dampness at her hairline, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath her jaw. "This is insane," June murmured, her breath warm against Iris’s cheek. "Professionally… ethically… it’s a fucking minefield." But she didn’t pull away. Her thumb kept circling, slow, hypnotic.
"I know." Iris tilted her head, a fraction, an invitation. Her own pulse hammered in her ears. "Knew it the second… the second I guided your hand." The truth hung between them, raw and unavoidable. "Doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t make the wanting stop." The loneliness of the past days, the ache since Theo left, condensed into a single, desperate point of contact.
A low sound escaped June, almost a groan. She dropped her forehead, bumping it gently against Iris’s temple. Her other hand came up, hesitant, then settled on Iris’s hip, fingers splaying wide over the flare of bone beneath the fabric. The touch was possessive, grounding. "Been replaying that moment," June confessed against her skin, her voice thick. "Your breath catching. Your whisper. Walking out that door felt like… like tearing something."
The raw honesty undid Iris. She turned her face, her lips brushing the shell of June’s ear. "Don’t walk out this time." Her free hand lifted, fingers tangling tentatively in the dark curls at the nape of June’s neck. The wool of her sweater was soft, scratchy. Real. "Please."
For a heartbeat, June remained frozen. Then, the tension in her shoulders snapped. She lifted her head, her eyes blazing dark in the low lamp light. Her gaze dropped to Iris’s mouth. "Okay," she breathed, the word barely audible. "Okay. But slow. So slow."
Then she kissed her. Not tentative. Not gentle. A hard, claiming press of lips that stole Iris’s breath. It was all heat and desperation, months of suppressed longing finally breaking free. Iris arched into her, a soft cry muffled against June’s mouth. June’s hand slid from Iris’s hip around to the small of her back, pulling her closer, careful of the swell of her belly pressed between them. The other hand remained trapped against Iris’s abdomen, the baby kicking a frantic rhythm beneath their joined palms, a wild counterpoint to the kiss.
June deepened it, her tongue sweeping against Iris’s, tasting of soy sauce and something uniquely her. Iris moaned, fingers tightening in June’s hair. It was messy, clumsy with urgency, teeth bumping, breaths mingling desperately. The apartment, the rain-threatened night outside, Theo, the ethical quagmire – it all dissolved into the heat of June’s mouth, the solid warmth of her body braced against Iris’s, the anchoring pressure of her hand on her belly. This felt terrifyingly real. Alive.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, their foreheads rested together. Iris’s lips tingled, swollen. June’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, her breathing ragged. She looked shocked. Awed. "Fuck," she whispered, her voice wrecked. She traced Iris’s bottom lip with her thumb. Just once. "That wasn’t slow."
Iris laughed, a breathy, shaky sound. She felt dizzy, euphoric, terrified. "Didn’t want slow." Her own hand slid from June’s neck down, tracing the line of her collarbone beneath the soft wool. "Want this." The baby gave another hard kick, a reminder. "She agrees."
June’s laugh was equally shaky. She pressed another quick, hard kiss to Iris’s mouth. "Okay," she said again, firmer this time. Her hand on Iris’s back slid lower, fingers dipping just below the waistband of her loose maternity pants. Her gaze held Iris’s, searching, asking permission. The streetlamp hummed. The forgotten noodles cooled. The scent of patchouli and sex and ginger hung thick in the air. Iris leaned in, her voice a low murmur against June’s lips.
"Then show me."
The words hung between them, charged and undeniable. June’s breath hitched, her gaze locked on Iris’s. The hand resting just below Iris’s waistband tensed, fingers curling slightly against the soft fabric. "Slow," June repeated, her voice thick, almost pleading. "We have to be slow." Her thumb traced the jut of Iris’s hipbone, a deliberate, grounding stroke. "This," she gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the charged air, the cooling noodles, the impossible situation, "isn't exactly standard midwifery protocol."
Iris managed a shaky laugh, the sound swallowed by the humming silence of the apartment. "Protocol flew out the window with the dumplings." She leaned her forehead against June’s, seeking the solid warmth. "Just… touch me. Like you did before." The memory of June’s hands on her back, the careful pressure easing the deep ache, sent a fresh wave of longing through her. "Before I… complicated things."
"You didn’t complicate," June murmured, her lips brushing Iris’s temple. "You just… made it real." She shifted her weight, carefully guiding Iris backwards a step, then another, towards the nest of pillows still scattered on the rug near the sofa. The forgotten painting shrouded in white loomed nearby like a silent witness. "Here. Easier than the bed right now." Her voice held a practical note, a sliver of the midwife surfacing amidst the storm.
Iris sank gratefully onto the cushions, the bulk of her belly settling heavily. June knelt beside her, the worn rug rough under her jeans. The proximity was electric. Iris watched June’s hands hover, trembling slightly, before one settled firmly on her swollen abdomen. The other reached out, fingertips tracing the line of Iris’s jaw, feather-light. "Your skin," June breathed, her eyes dark pools reflecting the dim lamp light. "It’s like… warm silk stretched over fire." Her thumb brushed Iris’s bottom lip again, lingering.
A shiver raced down Iris’s spine, pooling low. "Feels like it’s about to burst," she admitted, covering June’s hand on her belly with her own. The baby kicked hard against their joined palms, a sharp, insistent reminder. "Occupational hazard."
June chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Iris’s skin. "Occupational miracle." She leaned down, pressing a kiss just below Iris’s ear. Her lips were soft, warm. Then another kiss along the sensitive cord of her neck. Iris arched instinctively, a soft sigh escaping her. June’s hand slid from Iris’s jaw, down the column of her throat, tracing the delicate dip of her collarbone beneath the thin tunic. Her touch was deliberate, exploratory, mapping uncharted territory with a reverence that stole Iris’s breath.
"June," Iris whispered, her fingers tightening in the soft wool of June’s sweater. The scent of her – clean sweat, ginger, something uniquely earthy – filled Iris’s senses. "You don’t have to…"
"Yes, I do," June interrupted, her voice low and rough against Iris’s neck. She pulled back slightly, meeting Iris’s gaze. Her eyes held a fierce intensity, stripped bare of hesitation. "Want to feel you. All of you." Her hand slid lower, slipping beneath the loose hem of Iris’s tunic. Cool air brushed Iris’s skin, followed immediately by the searing warmth of June’s palm spreading across the taut curve of her belly. The touch was intimate, possessive. Iris gasped, her hips lifting slightly off the pillows.
June’s gaze dropped, watching her own hand move slowly, tracing the pronounced swell, the faint roadmap of stretch marks. Her thumb circled Iris’s navel, now stretched flat. "Beautiful," she murmured, the word thick with awe. "So fucking beautiful." Her hand drifted lower, skimming the waistband of Iris’s maternity pants, fingers dipping beneath the elastic. Iris held her breath, every nerve ending screaming.
Then, June paused. Her fingers rested just above the prominent swell of Iris’s pubic bone. She looked up, her expression suddenly vulnerable, searching Iris’s face. "Okay?" The single word held a universe of questions – about boundaries, about fear, about the tiny life resting just beneath her touch.
Iris swallowed, her throat dry. The baby shifted, a slow, heavy roll. She covered June’s hand again, pressing it firmly lower. Her voice was a raw scrape. "More than okay." She guided June’s fingers beneath the fabric, down through the coarse curls, towards the heat gathering there. "Show me," she breathed again, her eyes locked on June’s. "Show me what you’ve been thinking about." The streetlamp’s hum faded beneath the roaring pulse in her ears. June’s fingers curled, finding slick, desperate heat. A sharp, choked sound escaped her lips. Iris arched, pressing into the touch, her own fingers digging into June’s shoulder. The world narrowed to the point of contact, the ragged sound of their breathing mingling, the impossible, terrifying rightness of June’s hand moving against her, inside her, finally claiming the ache she’d ignited days ago on this same rug. The forgotten incense ash settled silently in its holder. The noodles congealed in their cardboard tombs. Nothing existed but this: June’s dark eyes wide with discovery, her fingers learning the rhythm Iris’s body demanded, the slow, deliberate stroke that promised everything and nothing beyond this fragile, stolen moment suspended in the lamplight. Iris’s head fell back against the pillows, a moan tearing loose as June’s thumb found the swollen, aching peak above, circling with devastating precision. "Like that?" June whispered, her voice rough with wonder, her gaze drinking in every tremor that crossed Iris’s face. Iris could only nod, her hips lifting, chasing the pressure, the friction, the exquisite unraveling beginning deep within her core, a counterpoint to the frantic kicks beneath June’s other hand still splayed possessively on her belly. The duality was dizzying – life burgeoning, pleasure cresting – held perfectly, impossibly, in the cradle of June’s touch.
The world sharpened back into focus with brutal clarity. Iris gasped, her body shuddering through the last tremors, the fierce coil inside her finally, gloriously unwound. Sweat dampened her hairline, sticking strands to her neck. June’s hand, still resting intimately between her thighs, felt impossibly warm, the thumb now still against her sensitive flesh. The other hand remained splayed possessively over the curve of her belly, where the baby had settled into a rhythmic, post-storm hiccup. Silence roared in Iris’s ears, louder than the streetlamp’s hum, fractured only by their ragged, synchronized breathing.
June stared down at her, eyes wide and dark, pupils swallowing the lamplight. Her expression flickered – awe, confusion, a dawning horror that Iris felt like a physical chill. "Holy hell," June breathed, the words barely audible, shaky. She slowly, carefully withdrew her hand from beneath Iris’s tunic, wiping her glistening fingers almost absently on her own jeans. The gesture seemed automatic, clinical, a stark contrast to the profound intimacy of moments before. Her gaze darted away, scanning the dim room – the shrouded painting, the cooling takeout containers, the scattered pillows – as if searching for an anchor in reality.
"That," Iris managed, her voice husky, drained, "wasn't slow." She tried for levity, a shaky echo of their earlier exchange, but it fell flat. Her limbs felt heavy, liquid, yet a sharp tension was coiling in her chest, watching June retreat behind her eyes. The cozy sanctuary suddenly felt exposed, the air thick with consequence instead of incense.
June flinched, her gaze snapping back to Iris’s face. A nervous laugh escaped her, brittle. "No. No, it really wasn't." She ran a trembling hand through her tangled dark curls, leaving them messier. "Fuck, Iris." She looked down at her own hand, the one that had just been inside Iris, her expression bewildered, almost disgusted. "I… I shouldn't have…"
"Shouldn't have what?" Iris pushed herself up slightly on her elbows, wincing at the strain in her lower back. The euphoria was fading fast, replaced by a cold prickle of vulnerability. She felt naked beyond the physical. "Come back? Brought noodles? Touched me?" The baby hiccupped again, a soft pop beneath her ribs. "She liked the noodles."
June’s eyes dropped to Iris’s belly, then flicked away again, color rising high on her cheekbones. "Don't," she said sharply, then softened her tone. "Please. Don't joke." She pushed herself up off her knees, the movement stiff, awkward. She paced two steps towards the kitchen island, then stopped, staring at the forgotten food. "This is… I crossed a line. A massive, glaring, career-ending line." She picked up a cold dumpling, stared at it, then put it down with a grimace. "Ethical violation doesn't even begin to cover it."
Iris watched her, the midwife reasserting herself, building walls with professional jargon. The woman who had just kissed her with desperate hunger, touched her with such raw reverence, was vanishing. A hard knot formed in Iris’s throat. "You crossed it when you walked back in that door smelling of ginger," she said quietly. "You crossed it when you said you hadn't stopped thinking about my skin. We both know that." She pulled her tunic down, covering herself, the sudden absence of June’s touch leaving a hollow ache.
June whirled around, her eyes flashing. "And that makes it okay?" Her voice was low, intense. "Because I wanted to? Because you wanted me to? Your vulnerability, your situation… Iris, you’re my patient." She spat the last word like it was poison. "Eight months pregnant, alone, hurting. I’m supposed to be your safe harbour, not… not this." She gestured wildly between them, encompassing the charged air, the rumpled pillows. "I took advantage."
"Did you?" Iris challenged, pushing herself fully upright now, a surge of defensive anger cutting through the fatigue. "Did you force me, June? Did I not guide your hand, again? Did I not beg you to show me?" She met June’s panicked gaze head-on. "Or is that just the convenient script for the ethics committee?" The baby gave a sharp kick, as if punctuating her point.
June flinched as if struck. She leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, her shoulders slumping. The fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a profound weariness. "It’s not convenient," she whispered, staring down at her hands. "It’s the truth. Your judgement… your needs right now… Christ, your hormones…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "It clouds things. Makes lines blurry."
Iris felt the sting, sharp and hot. "So, what? This was just biology? Convenient proximity? You think I don't know my own mind, June? My own desire?" She wrapped her arms protectively around her belly. "I wanted you. Before hormones. Before Theo left, even. Since the first time you measured my bump and your knuckles brushed my skin." The admission hung in the air, raw and undeniable.
June looked up sharply, shock flickering across her face. "What?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Since the beginning," Iris confirmed, holding her gaze. The vulnerability was terrifying, but the alternative – letting June dismiss this as a moment of weakness, a professional lapse – was worse. "It wasn't just tonight. It wasn't just loneliness. It was you." The baby moved again, a slow, heavy shift. A reminder of the impossible timing.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. June pushed off the counter, her movements slow, deliberate. She crossed the few feet back towards Iris, stopping just out of reach. Her eyes searched Iris’s face, tracing the lines of exhaustion, the lingering flush of pleasure, the stubborn set of her jaw. The raw honesty seemed to disarm her panic. "Jesus, Iris," she breathed. Not angry. Overwhelmed.
She knelt again, not touching, just looking. Her gaze was different now – less panicked midwife, more… something else. Wary, but present. "Okay," she said finally, the word heavy. "Okay. It was me. It was you." She swallowed hard. "But that doesn't magically erase the problems. The massive, fucking canyon of problems." She gestured towards Iris’s belly. "Including her. My responsibility to her safety, to your health, is still paramount. This…" She waved a hand vaguely around them. "Complicates that. Dangerously."
Iris nodded slowly, the anger ebbing, leaving exhaustion and a cold dread. "I know." She looked down at her own hands, clenched in the loose fabric of her tunic. "What now, then? Do you walk out again? Report yourself? Lose your license?" The thought sent a spike of pure terror through her, not just for herself, but for June. For the connection that felt terrifyingly real, impossible circumstances notwithstanding.
June sighed, a long, ragged sound. She reached out, slowly, tentatively, and covered Iris’s fisted hand with her own. Her palm was still warm. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice rough with fatigue and conflict. "I honestly don't know." Her thumb rubbed a small circle on the back of Iris’s hand. "But I’m not walking out tonight. Not like last time." She looked towards the cooling noodles, then back at Iris, a flicker of her earlier pragmatism surfacing. "First, we eat something. Before you pass out. Then…" She paused, her gaze locking with Iris’s, holding the complex, terrifying tangle of their situation. "Then we figure out how deep this canyon really is." Her fingers tightened slightly over Iris’s. "Together."