Spencer had always believed in statistics, probabilities, and logical outcomes. But none of those could prepare him for the ache of losing something—or someone—he never really had.

He met you during one of the darkest points in his life. You were a bright spark, someone who somehow managed to break through the constant storm cloud hovering over him after Maeve’s death. You were kind, with a quiet strength that drew him in, and slowly, cautiously, he let you get close.

At first, he told himself you were just a distraction. He told himself it wasn’t fair to fall for someone when his heart was still fractured, but as weeks turned into months, his resolve faded and you became a part of his life.

He never said it out loud, though—how much you meant to him, how you’d pulled him out of his grief, or about the constant battle between wanting to move forward and the guilt that held him back.

Then this evening, after one of his roughest cases yet, you were sitting beside him on his couch. Spencer was quiet, more than usual, the weight of the world pressing down on him as he stared at nothing.

“You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself,” you said softly, your hand resting gently on his. He flinched at the touch, and your face fell.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, starting to pull away.

“No,” Spencer said quickly, grabbing your hand. “It’s not that. I just—”

He took a deep breath, the words sticking in his throat. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. I don’t know if I can… I’m not sure if I’m ready.” He said, even if the thought of losing you was unbearable.

“I’m not enough for you right now.” He keeps on saying. “And maybe I never will.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Spencer could feel the finality of it, the reality that he was letting you go. Spencer knew you were the right person—the only person who’d ever made him feel like he could be whole again. But this wasn’t the right time. And maybe it never would be. Spencer knew: some people were only meant to be "almost."