It started slow.

Spencer’s hands were trembling — not with nerves, but with need. The kind he never let himself feel too loudly. The kind that made his voice catch, even as he whispered your name.

You were straddling his lap, palms cupping his jaw, grounding him. His glasses were already on the nightstand, forgotten. His eyes, wide and glassy, never left yours.

“You’re okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumbs over his flushed cheeks.

“I know,” he breathed. “I just—God, I—”

He broke off with a shaky sound, like a sob choked in the middle of a moan. You kissed the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his throat — and he melted, like your touch short-circuited whatever was left holding him together.

“I feel too much,” he whispered.

“I’ve got you.”

That’s when the tears came — not sharp or panicked, but slow and silent, spilling over as he buried his face in your shoulder and let go.

You held him through all of it — the shaking, the soft whimpering, the way he clung to you like something sacred. Like this moment had been waiting for him his whole life.

When he finally lifted his head, cheeks wet and lips swollen, he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.

“You didn’t run,” he said.