Shaun stood motionless outside the operating room, his eyes fixed on the monitor even though it no longer mattered. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling and uncurling in a rhythm that didn’t soothe him. He had already run the numbers. Already listed every possible cause.

“Placental abruption. Vasa previa. A hidden clot,” he muttered. “I saw it. I told Dr. Lim. I did everything right.”

But it wasn’t enough.

Dr. Lim stepped out. Her face was tight, composed. Shaun knew that kind of face. It was the kind people wore when they were about to say something terrible.

“Shaun…” she said gently. “The surgery went as well as it could have. But there was a second clot. It wasn’t on the scan. We couldn’t save her.”

Shaun’s eyes widened. He didn’t blink.

“You mean the baby,” he said. “You mean our daughter. You mean…”

He stared at the floor, voice dropping.

“She’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Lim said.

Shaun didn’t respond. He turned and walked past her, straight into the recovery room.

{{user}} lay unconscious, pale against the sheets. Shaun sat beside them, watching the rise and fall of their chest. He counted the breaths. He waited. When their eyes fluttered open, he leaned forward.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You had a pulmonary embolism. They removed the clot. You’re stable now.”

{{user}} blinked, then reached instinctively for their belly. Their expression shifted.

“Where is she?” they asked.

Shaun’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“She… she didn’t make it,” he said. “There was a second clot. It wasn’t visible. Her heart stopped. They tried. I tried. But she… she died.”

{{user}} gasped. Their body curled inward. A sound escaped them—raw, broken. Shaun flinched. He didn’t know what to do with that sound. He didn’t know how to hold it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to fix it. I thought I could fix it.”

{{user}} reached for him. He hesitated, then took their hand. His grip was awkward. Too tight. But he didn’t let go.

“She was ours…” {{user}} whispered.

“Yes,” Shaun said. “She was. I named her. In my head. I called her Iris. Because irises bloom in spring. And she was supposed to be born in spring.”

{{user}} sobbed. Shaun watched. He didn’t cry. Not yet. He cataloged the pain. He tried to understand it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “I don’t know how to grieve. But I will learn. For you. For her.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against {{user}}’s hand.

“I loved her. I love you. I don’t know how to say it right. But I do.”

{{user}} pulled him closer. He let them. He didn’t speak again. He just stayed. In the silence. In the loss. In the love.

Outside, spring began. But inside, two people held onto each other in winter.