The argument had been brutal. The bullpen walls still held echoes of Spencer’s voice, sharp and unrelenting, cutting deeper than either of you had intended.

The case had gone wrong—seriously wrong. Lives had been lost, and Spencer had blamed you. Maybe not outright, but in the way he tore into you, dissecting your every decision with the precision of a scalpel. Every misstep laid bare, every perceived failure scrutinized. His words weren’t just about the case. They had been personal.

"You always do this. You think you know better, and people get hurt because of it."

Even now, hours later, the weight of it lingered. The unspoken words, the unshed tears—it all hung between you like a chasm neither of you knew how to cross.

Then everything went wrong again.

Gunfire erupted in the middle of the street. The team scattered, agents moving into position, civilians screaming as chaos unfolded in an instant. And then—

Spencer saw you go down.

His world tunneled, his breath catching as he watched you stumble, the red blooming across your torso, too bright, too fast.

He was at your side in seconds, hands pressing down, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to do something. His pulse hammered against his ribs, his fingers trembling as they pushed against the wound.

"Stay with me," his voice cracked, raw with fear. "Please."

There was too much blood. His mind, usually so full of statistics and medical knowledge, refused to focus on anything but the unbearable truth: this was his fault.

The last thing he had said to you was cruel. The last thing you had heard from him was blame. And now—now you were slipping away beneath his hands.

And Spencer didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to take it back.