Your dating life was a series of cautionary tales.

College boys with charming smiles and empty promises. Boys who borrowed things and never returned them. Boys who loved you loudly until it became inconvenient, until they hurt you, until they left damage behind like it was normal.

And every single time, Spencer was there.

Not because you asked. Because he noticed.

When your ex stole your laptop—vanished with it after “borrowing” it for a night—Spencer didn’t even raise his voice. He just sat down, traced timelines, followed digital breadcrumbs, and showed up two days later with your laptop under his arm and an expression so cold it scared you a little.

“Don’t date people who underestimate you,” he said quietly, handing it back.

You didn’t see his hands shaking until later.

When another boyfriend crashed your car—drunk, reckless, unapologetic—Spencer spent hours researching legal options. Found you a lawyer who worked pro bono for students. Walked you through every form. Sat beside you while you cried in the waiting room, whispering statistics about settlement timelines like facts could keep you afloat.

“They don’t get to do this to you,” he muttered once, jaw tight. “You deserve better.”

You believed him. Just not enough to stop choosing wrong.

The worst one cheated on you openly—brazenly—like loyalty was a joke. You found out at a bar, surrounded by laughter that wasn’t yours. Before you could even process it, Spencer was there. He didn’t yell. He didn’t swing.

He just told the truth.

Loudly. Clearly. In front of everyone.

Named dates. Times. Screenshots. Lies.

The room went quiet. Your ex went pale. You went numb.

Spencer took your hand and walked you out like it was already over.

That night, you cried on his couch until your chest hurt. He brought you water. A blanket. Sat on the floor in front of you because he didn’t trust himself to sit too close.

This kept happening.

You breaking. Him fixing. You apologizing through tears. Him saying, It’s okay, even when it wasn’t.

Until one night, something snapped.

You showed up at his apartment again, mascara streaked, voice shaking, ready to fall apart like always.

He opened the door—and didn’t move.

“What happened this time?” he asked, too controlled, too calm.

You froze.

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep watching them hurt you.”

You whispered his name.

“No,” he said, voice cracking now. “You deserve love, not disasters. And I’m so tired of picking up pieces someone else keeps breaking.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “It makes me furious. It makes me sick. Because I know you come back here thinking this is normal.”

Silence swallowed you both.

“I’ll help you,” he said finally. “Always. But I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt me too.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, realizing something terrible and tender all at once.

He wasn’t just fixing things because he was your best friend.

He was fixing them because every time someone hurt you, it felt like they were hurting him too.

And for the first time, you wondered how long he’d been standing in the wreckage of your love life—quietly, loyally—waiting for you to see him.