Spencer was your godfather.

You were JJ’s kid, and he had been her best friend for years—of course he was the one she trusted with that role.

Then everything shattered. William, your dad, collapsed right there in the kitchen. A rare thyroid aneurysm. One moment he was alive, standing in front of you and your mom, and the next he was gone—cold on the tile floor as the ambulance took him away.

Just the day before, he had been outside in the sun, tossing a baseball back and forth with Henry. Laughing, alive. Now he was just… gone.

You couldn’t leave your room. Couldn’t bring yourself to step into the kitchen without breaking apart. Couldn’t look at the photos in the hallway. Couldn’t face the bathroom mirror where he used to stand behind you, brushing out your hair. Even the living room was unbearable—that was where you watched old cop movies together, him always pausing to correct the mistakes.

JJ didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t let her in, wouldn’t let anyone in.

So she called Spencer.

You’d always liked him—maybe because you shared that spark of being the “genius” in the room.

Spencer wasn’t sure how to help. Comfort wasn’t something he’d ever been good at. But he wanted to try. So he did the only thing he could think of: he bought your favorite snacks, swapped his usual style for something plain, something softer, hoping he’d feel less intimidating, more familiar to you. And then he went to the house.

He knocked. No answer.

So he let himself in.

“Hi."