Spencer stood at your door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat like that might steady them.

It had been a month. Thirty-two days, to be exact—not that he’d stopped counting.

You were the one who left. He didn’t blame you. He had always known he loved you more than he knew how to show. And now, standing here, rain soft against his shoulders and every version of your laugh echoing in his mind, he realized he’d give anything just to get it wrong with you again. Just to try.

He raised his hand and knocked—once, then again, more hesitantly.

“{{user}}?” His voice was quiet, rougher than usual. “Open up. Please. I—”

He hesitated. There was no sound from inside, just the faint hum of the hallway light and his own heartbeat pressing against his ribs like it was trying to reach you itself.

“I miss you,” he breathed, the words half-sighed, half-choked. “And I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to… I didn’t mean to push you away. I never wanted to.”

Still, nothing.

His head dropped forward until it rested softly against the doorframe. Silence had never felt so loud.

Then, softer this time, voice cracked and a little more broken:

“Please?”

He didn’t know if you were behind the door or miles away by now. But he knew that if you opened it—just even a little—he’d never let himself take you for granted again.