You were a guarded kid. That’s what Spencer noticed first—the way you crossed your arms and glared when he walked into your mom’s hospital room. The way you refused to look at her, staring at the floor like it might somehow explain everything that had gone wrong.

He understood the anger. It was sharp and defensive, but he recognized it for what it was: grief wearing a different face. He knew what it was like to hurt so much that anger became the easiest thing to hold onto.

And because your mom couldn’t take the brunt of it, you gave it to Spencer.

The first time you snapped at him, muttering something under your breath about him being a know-it-all, he let it slide. But the second time, when you rolled your eyes and scoffed again, his attention flicked to the book you clutched tightly. A worn, random book about the Galápagos Islands.

“I’ve read that one,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s fascinating. Did you know the finches Darwin studied weren’t what inspired his theory of evolution? It was actually the mockingbirds.”

You shifted, your grip on the book tightening.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, his tone gentle. “Books like that… they’re comforting, aren’t they? All those facts about places we might never see, but it feels like you’ve been there anyway. Like it makes the world just a little bigger.”

You didn’t say anything, but the glare faded. Slowly, you sat down, keeping the book close. Spencer didn’t push further, just stayed quiet, giving you the space to decide if you wanted him there. For the first time, it felt like maybe someone understood.