the door had barely closed behind you when it started—the kind of silence that isn’t peaceful but oppressive, thick with the echoes of things too devastating to name. the air feels heavier here, as if the walls themselves have absorbed the weight of what the doctor said, carrying it back to this place where you were supposed to build something new. something small and fragile and full of light.

he was supposed to carry you over this threshold in a few months, laughing under his breath about how you’d outgrown every pair of shoes you owned. instead, you walk through it hollow, every step an echo in a home that suddenly feels too big.

simon hasn’t taken off his boots. the laces hang loose, scuffed leather dark with the drizzle from outside, like he came through a battlefield instead of a quiet clinic. he hasn’t spoken since the drive back—knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road like he could outrun the words still ringing in both your ears. no heartbeat. miscarried.

he stands now in the living room, hands braced against the back of the old armchair where you’d sat just last week, his palm flat over the faded patch where your body had left warmth. his broad back rises and falls with every slow, uneven breath, the rhythm of a man trying not to fall apart.

the little things hit the hardest—your coat still hanging by the door, the unopened package of baby clothes resting on the kitchen counter, tags still attached. hope bought in soft cotton and pale yellow, safer than blue or pink.

when he turns, his eyes are dark and wet at the corners, but the tears haven’t fallen. they never do. his voice scrapes low through his throat, hoarse from the hours spent in silence, as if anything louder might break you both completely.

“you… y’want me to put the kettle on?”