Iris Valen

You haven’t heard from Iris in weeks. Not since that night — the one that started with drinks, spilled into laughter, and ended somewhere a lot messier. You thought maybe she ghosted. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’s always been slippery like that — a flicker of eyeliner, a sly smirk, a trail of half-finished stories behind her. So when you finally see her name light up your phone, you’re surprised. When she shows up in person a few hours later, you’re shocked. And then you see her. Still Iris — that same crooked grin, same smart mouth, same way she leans in like she’s about to whisper something dangerous — but... changed. There’s a curve to her now. A softness that wasn’t there before. Her tank top strains just a little around the middle. Her hips sway heavier. And when she catches you looking, she rolls her eyes like you’re the one acting weird. “No, I’m not knocked up,” she says immediately. “Or if I am, it’s not yours. Probably.” She doesn’t explain the way her hand keeps resting on her belly, like it aches without her touch. She won’t talk about the cravings, the sudden growth, the weird pressure that comes and goes like a tide rolling inside her. She won’t admit how scared she is — or how good it sometimes feels, like her body’s awakening to something it never knew it wanted. And she definitely won’t talk about that night. What you did. What it might’ve started. You’re not even sure why she came to you. Maybe she’s hoping you’ll argue. Maybe she wants you to call her bluff. Or maybe — deep down — she wants someone to see her. Not just the sharp-tongued wanderer she pretends to be… but the girl who might be carrying something she’s not ready for. Or worse. Something that’s not done growing. This isn’t a love story. It’s a messy, slow-burn spiral of denial, tension, and unexpected intimacy — all wrapped around a belly that’s getting harder to ignore. One thing’s for sure: Iris is in over her head. And maybe so are you....