Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HUNTER
THREE WEEKS LATER
The sun’s barely cresting the horizon, but I’m wide awake. Not because I have to be. No alarms, no fire station, not even Buster’s need for an ungodly early morning walk. I’m just… awake, pinned under a deadweight tangle of soft skin and even softer hair.
Iris is curled against my chest, face smashed into my shoulder, her breath coming in slow, even puffs.
The light coming through the blinds slices the room into perfect stripes, landing across the arc of her bare back, the rumpled blanket, the mess of golden hair that’s somehow managed to take over the entire pillow. She’s got one arm thrown across my chest and a thigh hiked over my hip.
Buster’s on the bed, too, wedge-shaped between our legs, dead to the world.
He’s the self-appointed king of our bedroom, snoring loud enough to rattle the headboard.
Last night, he made three separate attempts to burrow under the covers; each time, Iris gently reminded him that he only sleeps on my pillow when I’m at the station.
I want mornings exactly like this every day for the rest of my fucking life.
I want to keep her safe, make her laugh, and love her so hard that she’s addicted to me for life.
I want the future, the kind I’d convinced myself wasn’t for me.
A home. A family. Maybe even an ugly minivan, if she wants one.
I want the noise, the mess, the chaos. All of it.
I reach up, careful not to disturb her, and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She mumbles something about “waffles” and burrows in closer, her bare stomach flush against mine. I wrap both arms around her and breathe in the scent of shampoo and vanilla and pure, unfiltered Iris.
I’m just about to drift back off when everything changes.
Iris bolts upright, nearly head-butting me in the face. “Shit!” she gasps, eyes huge and wild. Before I can even ask what’s wrong, she’s scrambling off the bed, stumbling on the blanket, and beelining for the bathroom with one hand clamped over her mouth.
Buster pops up, blinking, ears at full mast. I launch myself after her, years of emergency response hardwired into my nervous system. I’m halfway to the bathroom door before my brain catches up to my body.
The bathroom door is wide open. I find her kneeling on the tile, hugging the toilet.
She’s shaking, sweat breaking out along her hairline, skin paper white and shiny.
For a second, I think maybe she’s dying.
Anaphylaxis, heart attack, stroke—my brain cycles through the worst-case scenarios at light speed.
“Iris!” I drop to my knees beside her, palm to her forehead, other hand at her back. “Are you okay? Shit, talk to me—”
She answers by retching into the bowl, loud and violent and so prolonged I’m genuinely afraid she’ll pass out.
I sweep her hair back and hold it, rubbing gentle circles along her spine.
When the vomiting finally stops, she slumps forward, forehead resting on the lid, shoulders heaving with aftershocks.
I rinse a washcloth under the cold tap and wring it out, then press it to the back of her neck. She lets out a weak groan and lifts her head, eyes swimming but dry. Her lashes clump together, dark with tears she’s too tough to let fall.
“You done?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
She nods, but her mouth twists, and for a second, I think she’s going to lose it all over again. Instead, she sinks back onto her heels and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “Wow,” she whispers. “That was… icky.”
“Let’s get you off the floor, Sunshine.” I wrap both arms around her and haul her to her feet, ignoring the way her entire body shakes. She sags into me, letting me carry her weight. I can feel the heat of her skin, the way her muscles twitch with every step.
I set her on the closed toilet lid and kneel in front of her, holding the washcloth to her forehead. She closes her eyes and leans into my hand like she’s been waiting all her life for this exact moment.
“I’ll get you some water,” I say.
She grabs my wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who just lost everything she’s eaten in the last twelve hours. “Wait,” she says, her voice rough. “Don’t leave.”
I stay right where I am. After a minute, she lets go and rests her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together in a nervous, endless knot.
We sit like that for a long, silent minute. The only sound is the soft whir of the vent fan and Buster’s anxious whining in the hall.
“Are you ready to go back to bed?” I ask as I gently rub her back.
“Let’s try,” she mutters, leaning against me.
I help her stand, walk her back to bed, and tuck her in.
Buster hops up and flops down next to her, instantly reverting to his favorite job as the world’s laziest emotional support animal.
“I’m going to let you sleep a while.” I place a soft kiss on her forehead.
I place her phone on the pillow next to her. “Call or text me if you need anything.”
“I will,” she mutters and snuggles into the covers.
I watch her for a second longer, just to be sure. She tucks the blanket up around her chin, blue eyes already glazed with exhaustion. Buster noses up against her side and starts in with his snoring routine, not even pretending to keep it down. Typical.
I close the bedroom door partway behind me and head for the kitchen, adrenaline still humming in my veins. While she sleeps, I clean the apartment and make a grocery list.
Frustration cuts through me. I want to fix it. I want to fix her, but all I can do is make sure she gets the rest she needs.
I keep busy, but my mind never drifts far from her. I check on her every twenty minutes, like a psycho. Sometimes I just stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. She’s curled up on her side, hugging my pillow, with Buster snuggled in tight against her knees.
After a few hours, she stirs. Blinks at me, face squashed and adorable, hair in wild loops across her eyes. “Hey,” she rasps, barely awake.
“Hey, Sunshine.” I slide onto the bed next to her, stroke her cheek, just to feel the warmth of her skin.
“I feel so much better,” she whispers. And I believe it—the color’s back in her face, and her eyes are clear and bright. Relief floods through my veins, so intense it almost hurts.
We spend the whole day together. No drama, no expectations. Just us planning for the busy week ahead.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of retching.
Motherfucker. It’s the kind of heaving that echoes through the entire apartment, a full-throated, gut-deep wail that peels me out of a dead sleep and straight onto the floor. I stumble out of bed, barely registering that it’s still dark outside, and follow the sound to the bathroom.
She’s there again. Same position as yesterday, hunched over the toilet, face gray and sweat-sheened.
Her hands shake as she braces herself on the edge of the bowl.
I don’t hesitate—I drop to my knees and gather her hair back, run a damp washcloth over her forehead, and whisper useless comfort in her ear.
“I’m fine,” she lies, voice shredded. “Just need a minute.”
I know better. She’s clammy and trembling, just like yesterday.
Once she’s done, we follow the same routine. I help her clean up and then tell her, “Let’s get you in bed.” My voice comes out gruffer than I mean, but I can’t help it. Something inside me is coiling tighter and tighter, a cold knot of worry that won’t let go.
I lift her off the floor, carry her back to the bedroom, and bundle her under the covers.
Buster sits at the foot of the bed, watching with those huge, worried eyes. He whines, soft and low, then noses under the covers and curls up next to her side.
I go into the kitchen and boil water for tea, then force her to drink half a cup, one sip at a time. She makes a face with each swallow, but she takes it, and when I set the mug down, she leans her head back against the pillows and closes her eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub circles into her back. For a long time, we stay like that. When the sun comes up, I call the fire station, tell them I’ll be late, and keep one ear tuned to her every sigh and shuffle.
Her temperature is normal when I check it, but she’s pale, her lips chapped and trembling. When I try to get her to eat something, she protests, but I manage to force down a few saltines before she refuses another bite.
“Sunshine,” I say, voice low. “This isn’t the flu. Maybe you should take a sick day so we can take you to urgent care.”
Her mouth works, but nothing comes out. She looks terrified.
“Iris?” My voice is softer now, and I brush her hair out of her eyes.
She takes a shuddering breath, then another, and finally whispers, “I think I already know what it is.”
That stops me cold. My brain does a hard reset.
I wait, heart in my throat.
She won’t meet my eyes. “I think I’m pregnant.”
It takes a second to process. The words land, roll around, and finally detonate. Pregnant.
Fuck, I’m an idiot. Happiness bubbles over the panic filling me.
She must see the panic in my eyes, because she immediately backpedals. “I’m not positive. I mean, it could still be a bug, or stress, or… or—” She’s babbling, and her hands are shaking, so I cover them with mine and squeeze.
“I fucking hope you are pregnant,” I say, and while my chest feels like it’s about to explode, I keep my voice calm and steady.
“Call in while I run to the convenience store on the corner for a test.” I stand up and start pulling on a T-shirt and shorts.
I keep telling myself not to get excited until we know for sure she’s pregnant.
But fuck it. I’m so goddamn happy I’m about to explode.
After slipping on my tennis shoes, I sit on the edge of the bed and brush my thumb over her cheek. “We’ll figure it out, Iris. Together. You’re not alone, not for a second.”
She’s quiet for a minute, then says, “I love you.” God, I’ll never get tired of hearing those words coming from her lips.
“I love you, too.” I place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Anything else you need? You want crackers? Ginger ale?”
She gives me a real smile, soft and relieved. “Just the test. And maybe a donut?”
“Done.” I stand, grab my wallet, and head for the door. At the last second, I double back and lean over the bed to kiss her, slow and careful.