I nod once and head down the hall.
Room six is loud. Not chaotic, but loud in the way labor rooms always are. Focused urgency. A woman breathing through pain.A nurse issuing calm instructions like she’s reading from a script she’s memorized a thousand times.
I step inside and immediately clock the scene.
A young mother in her mid-twenties. Dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Honey-brown eyes, sharp despite the strain. She’s here alone. She grips the side rails like she’s personally offended by the concept of contractions.
I don’t blame her. I would be too, in her position.
“Doctor,” the nurse says quickly. “This is Temperance Lawson. Contractions three minutes apart. She’s progressing fast.”
Temperance Lawson. The name registers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I don’t linger on it. I step to the bedside, professional voice sliding into place.
“Ms. Lawson,” I begin, calm, measured. “I’m Dr. Baylock. You’re doing?—”
“Perry,” she snaps, breathing hard through the end of a contraction. “My name is Perry. And I want drugs right the fuck now.”
The nurse bites back a smile.
“Perry,” I correct smoothly. “We can get anesthesia in here for an epidural, but you’re progressing quickly. It may not take full effect.”
“Then hurry,” she growls, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “Because I am not doing this naturally.”
Despite myself, I almost laugh. There’s fire in her. Sharp edges, even in pain. I’ve seen women fold inward during labor, go quiet and distant. She does the opposite—leans into it, fights it.
“Call anesthesia,” I tell the nurse. “And page neonatal. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” Perry echoes.
“Twins,” the nurse supplies.
Perry closes her eyes briefly. “Oh my God.”
I raise a brow. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew,” she pants. “I just forgot for a second.”
The contraction hits again. She curses fluently and creatively. I step back, giving the anesthesiologist room as he enters, moving through the practiced motions. I monitor vitals, watch for complications, mind shifting fully into clinical mode.
This is what Meron meant. This is what he thinks I consider beneath me.
He’s wrong. It isn’t beneath me. It’s just different.
The epidural goes in cleanly. Within minutes, the edge of her pain dulls. Her breathing evens. The tension in her shoulders loosens.
“Better?” I ask.
She exhales long and shaky. “I want to marry that man.”
“He’s taken,” I reply dryly.
She cracks one eye open, studying me properly for the first time. Recognition flickers across her face—too quick to pin down, too subtle to question—but it’s there. A measuring look. Then it’s gone.
“You’re very calm,” she says.
“I get paid to be.”
She huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “Figures.”
