"She has to have your hair." Olivia nestled closer into Fitz's chest and smiled. They were standing on the balcony overlooking the backyard of their home. It was a peaceful afternoon: the sun was high in the middle of the sky, a few unthreatening clouds dotted the sky with a breeze whirling around them in pleasant silence. The day gave her the energy to pull on a sundress, a welcome change from the sweats she had been living in for the past few days. It was perfection.

"My hair is a pain in the ass."

"Your hair is a pain in the ass?" She retorted. He chuckled softly.

"Touche. Fine. She can have my messy curls. But she has to have your eyes. God, I love your eyes." She turned to face him and he gazed into the extreme roundness of her chocolate irises.

"My eyes are so boring. I love how one day your eyes are grey, but the next hour they are this majestic blue."

"Your eyes are so expressive. I want her to be just like her mother, straightforward and blunt. With a simple look."

"Fine. Your hair. My eyes. What is left to decide?"

"Personality."

"Hmmm…well, she will be intelligent, just like her mother. Witty and passionate like me."

"I want her to have your pure spirit. That ability to always see the positive in everything. That is what I love most about you." FItz brought his lips to her temple. There were no words to describe how much he loved every flaw and perfection of this woman.

"She has to be tough like you. I want her to be able to take on the obstacles the universe has to throw at her without breaking a sweat." They stood in silence, the soft breeze sifting through the trees and touching them gently. The perfection of the setting made Olivia slightly uncomfortable considering the circumstances. Everything was far from perfect. Three days ago, maybe. But today?

Oh, definitely not today.

"Emilia." Fitz's said in a whisper, his voice shaking with the breeze. "Sweet, sweet Emilia." Olivia shut her eyes tight to stop the tears from slipping through. She had spent the past seventy-two hours weeping. Seventy-two hours of encompassing herself in sadness and solitude. He was strong for her, allowed her to mourn outwardly and completely. But he was suffering in strong silence. He was bound to crack eventually. She knew it was his turn, which is why she didn't stop him when he brought up their precious girl. He had to torture himself to get it out of his system. With each description his wall cracked a little more. The four syllable name was the final blow.

The wet carnation of his sorrow reached her bare shoulder and she felt weak. She kept her stance strong; it was his turn to break down. She was doing alright supporting his weight as he leaned into her from behind, his head draped on her right shoulder. It was when he moved his hands from her shoulders and down to her flattening stomach that it all came undone.

Three days ago a small bump rested where it was now flat. Three days ago she was a reality. Four months into a blissful future of first steps, soccer practices and recitals and sick days. Five months away from those tiny hands grabbing onto their thumbs tightly, never to let go. A love they would never know.

They fell to the ground of that balcony, holding onto each other as tight as those tiny fingers would have, crying for that precious girl. The perfect breeze came over them again.

The breath of the perfect girl they would never know.