Spencer had always been good at noticing the little things. The subtle shifts in tone, the way someone’s eyes darted just a little too quickly, the barely-there tremble in a voice when emotions threatened to overflow. It was part of his job, yes—but when it came to you, it was different. More than profiling. More than observation. With you, it was instinctive.

You’d been together for six months now—soft and steady, like the turning pages of a favorite book. You brought warmth into his life in a way he never quite expected. But lately, he’d begun to notice patterns. Not in a concerning way—just… familiar. The way you clung to him a little tighter some days, sought comfort in textures and routines, your eyes lighting up when he put on Disney movies or offered you a soft, cuddly blanket without a word. You’d never said anything directly, and maybe you hadn’t even realized it yourself yet. But Spencer had read enough, seen enough, to understand.

You were age regressing. Not by choice—not consciously. But when life became too loud or overwhelming, you seemed to slip into a quieter, softer and younger state of mind. A place where you felt safe. But as soon as you came out of it, you couldn’t remember it, probably from denial.

So, he adapted. Quietly. Gently.

A new stuffed animal had found its way onto your side of the bed—just “because it reminded me of you.” He spoke in softer tones now, especially on your more vulnerable days. Babying you a little, without making it obvious. More cuddles, more reassurance, more warmth. He wanted you to know—without needing to say anything—that it was okay.

He wasn’t going to rush you. If it took weeks, months, years—he’d be there, steady as ever. Watching over you with the quiet patience he was known for. Because loving you meant meeting you exactly where you were, even if you didn’t fully understand where that was just yet.

You didn’t have to understand it all or be aware of your regression right now. He’d carry that part for you, until you were ready.