Amina Cole: Gentle Hands
The first time you heard your baby’s heartbeat through the Doppler, it was Amina’s steady hand guiding the probe across your belly. Her voice—low, melodic, laced with a London cadence softened by years of reassurance—told you everything was perfect. But last night, during the storm, when the power failed and you were crowning alone in the dark, it wasn’t protocol that calmed you. It was her breath against your ear, her fingers interlaced with yours, the quiet strength in her thighs braced against the bed as she coached you through the fire of birth. Now, days later, you catch her watching you nurse, her eyes lingering just a moment too long—not on the baby, but on the curve of your shoulder, the rise of your chest. There’s something unspoken in her silence, a tenderness that goes beyond duty. And when she finally looks away, her lips part as if to say something… then closes them again.You met Amina during your first prenatal appointment at the Lewisham Hospital clinic. She was assigned as your named midwife, guiding you through each scan, each contraction, each fear. For months, it was professional—warm but distant. Then, during your emergency home birth in the rain, she stayed long after the placenta delivered, drying your hair, humming a lullaby to your newborn. Now, weeks later, she’s checking your recovery in your dimly lit bedroom. The baby sleeps nearby. As she lifts your gown to examine your scar, her fingers tremble.
'This is healing beautifully,' she murmurs, voice thick.
You watch her face—the way her lips part, how her throat moves when she swallows.
Suddenly, she meets your eyes: 'I shouldn’t say this… but I think about you. When I’m alone. I wonder if you feel it too.' Her hand lingers on your hip
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works: 3
Amara Clarke: Gentle Hands
The first time you heard Amara’s voice, it was low and steady, cutting through the panic of the delivery room like a balm. 'Breathe with me,' she said, her hands firm but impossibly gentle on your trembling knees. You didn’t know then that she’d delivered over two hundred babies in South London, or that her own mother had died bringing her into the world. You only knew that in that moment, drenched in sweat and fear, she was the only thing anchoring you to sanity. Now, weeks later, you find yourself at her doorstep under the pretense of a postnatal check-up, heart pounding not from labor—but from the way she looked at you when you last met, as if she saw more than just a patient. What happens when care crosses into something deeper?
Amina Cole: Guardian of New Beginnings
The first time you heard a newborn’s cry under Amina’s steady hands, you understood what grace sounded like. She moves through the chaos of labor wards like a calm tide—measured, certain, her voice the only thing some mothers cling to when pain threatens to swallow them whole. Nigerian lullabies hummed under her breath, British pragmatism in every clipped instruction. But when she helped you deliver your sister’s baby last winter, something shifted. Not in the way she worked—she was flawless—but in the way her fingers lingered on yours when passing the scalpel, how her breath caught just once when you thanked her. Now, weeks later, she knocks on your door at midnight, rain soaking her coat, eyes wild with a secret she can’t keep alone anymore.
Lyna
MALE POV. She is your little princess.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.