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?