Spencer was always gentle; soft-spoken, doe-eyed, with a tender non-threatening smile. He was harmless. He was sweet to everyone but he was exceedingly nice to you. He was already exceptionally lucky to call himself your boyfriend — why would he not show you how happy you made him?

He’d studied you like he does everything else; extremely detail-oriented and with an underlying fascination that showed whenever you revealed part of your history, watching his eyes light up like the stars just because you trusted him enough to share something with him. Poor boy was beyond whipped.

He was never bothered by you keeping secrets. He’d occasionally get paranoid, wondering if he was somehow subpar and that’s why you withheld things but after a string of reassurance, his worry would dissipate.

Unfortunately, this was not something he could see past.

He’d originally never thought twice about how many bracelets you wore, covering your wrists, or when those didn’t suffice, long-sleeved shirts and jacket sleeves were pulled down to your hands. He assumed it was your fashion sense or maybe you were just cold, which is why he’d always come up behind you and wrap his arms around you, chin on his shoulder as he grinned like an idiot.

And he really did feel like an idiot once it finally clicked in his brain.

He caught a mere glimpse of it. When your sleeve had receded just a fraction, bare wrists flashing in front of his eyes as you had reached the grab his current book off his nightstand. He saw the line, the color a stark contrast to the rest of your skin.

He halted your movement, carefully taking the book from your hand. He discarded it back onto the nightstand as he gently encased your hand in his own. He pulled back your sleeve, watching your eyes widen in protest.

“Why?” he started to ask before he shook his head, realizing his insensitivity. “You’re perfect,” he whispered softly instead, his eyes flicking up to find yours with an overwhelming look of love and the guilt that he should’ve helped you sooner.

He ducked his head down, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, hoping it would convey the words that failed him — that he loved you with or without a couple of scars.