Spencer wasn’t the same after prison. The man you loved-the one who used to leave you notes with random facts and kiss your forehead every morning—was gone. Now his voice was sharp, his words laced with venom, always ready to lash out at the smallest thing.

He confronted everything with anger. If you asked him a question, his response was curt, cutting, as though your words had personally offended him. If you tried to offer comfort, he would scoff or snap, his eyes narrowing in a way that made you feel foolish for even trying.

His frustration bled into everything he did—the heavy clatter of dishes in the sink, the way he slammed doors as if each one had personally wronged him, the glare he gave you if you so much as sighed too loudly.

He wasn’t just particular anymore; he was obsessive. Every item had to be in its exact place, every routine followed to the letter. If something was out of order, it wasn’t just wrong—it was unacceptable. “Can you do anything right?” he snapped, his tone wasn’t loud, but it cut deeper than any shout could have.

Nights were the worst. He didn’t sleep much, and when he did, it was fitful and haunted. When he woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, he would shove your hand away if you tried to help. Other nights, he clung to you so tightly it hurt, as if letting go would break him entirely.

He never talked about what happened inside, and you learned not to ask. But the shadows of it clung to him, impossible to ignore. The way his jaw tightened when he heard keys jangling. The way he instinctively moved to the edge of a room, his back to the wall. The way his hands curled into fists whenever someone got too close. He carried himself like he was ready for a fight, and sometimes, it felt like you were his opponent.

You had thought you could handle this, thought you were strong enough to support him. But the anger in him was infectious, spreading through the house until every room felt suffocating. You weren’t just losing him—you were losing yourself, too.