People carry exhaustion differently. Some collapse and sleep; Spencer doesn't. He keeps going until his body starts bargaining with his brain. He keeps his cardigan on, even when the heat of the apartment turns uncomfortable, as if it holds him together. The desk lamp hums faintly — one of those noises that exist only to remind you that silence doesn’t really exist. Twenty‑nine hours without sleep, four cups of coffee, and still counting.

He hates how familiar this feels.

The words on the page blur and double, his hand pressed to the side of his face like he’s holding it in place. There’s a migraine building behind his eyes — sharp, electric — but it’s almost comforting in its predictability. Pain makes sense. He can measure it. He can catalogue it.

You’re the variable.

You, sitting quietly on the edge of his desk, watching him crumble with that strange, patient tenderness that always makes him feel more exposed than being profiled ever did. You’re not loud. You don’t fill the room. You simply exist in it — like a breath he forgot he needed. Spencer doesn’t do well with people who hover, but you don’t. You wait. You understand.

He feels your hand before he sees it — soft, tentative, touching his chin with just enough pressure to make him look up. For a second, every muscle in his body tightens; instinct. He’s not used to this. The world has taught him that touch means intrusion, that closeness always asks for something in return. But your hand doesn’t ask. It just stays there, warm and steady, grounding him in a way that feels almost clinical at first — then devastatingly gentle.

He lets you.

That’s how he loves — in small permissions. Letting you touch him. Letting you stay.

His eyes flicker up to yours, pupils dilated from the light, or the lack of sleep, or maybe from something else entirely. “You should go home,” he murmurs, because he’s tired and doesn’t know how to say I need you here.

You don’t move.