It was late evening, and you were in the kitchen, navigating your way from the fridge to the counter with a glass of water. You had turned your head for a second, just a second, but that was enough. Your elbow smacked into the edge of the counter, and the glass tipped, water splashing down your shirt.

“Ow!” you yelped, shaking your arm out as you tried to stifle the pain. Just as you were debating how to salvage the situation, you noticed Spencer walking into the kitchen; he’d been getting quieter, and lately, it felt like he always had this dark cloud following him around. Prison had changed him — he came back harder, colder, with walls that even you sometimes struggled to break through.

“I swear, sometimes I don’t know how you manage to injure yourself so often,” he muttered, slightly touching your elbow. There was a time when he would have joked about your clumsiness, maybe wrapped you in his arms and told you that you were too precious to get hurt like this. But now… now he seemed to keep you at arm’s length.

You tried to laugh it off, grabbing a dish towel to wipe away the water from your shirt. “Well, someone has to keep you on your toes,” you said lightly, hoping to break the tension, but it barely made him crack a smile.

Spencer crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze falling to the floor for a moment. “It’s not that funny,” he said, voice lower, more serious. “You’re always… falling, tripping, running into things. What if one day it’s worse than a bruise? What if you actually get hurt?”

You looked up at him, searching his face. There was a crease between his brows, and his jaw was set tightly. You hadn’t realized he worried about it that much, and a strange pang of guilt washed over you.

He still cared.