It was 11 when you got home, a late night even for working at a hospital. You shrug off your jacket and toe off your shoes before approaching the couch, seeing the sleeping Spencer with his face nuzzled into the cushions and little sleepy snores leaving his mouth.

He’d messaged you hours ago, saying he’d gotten off work early and was gonna come around to visit, but you’d been so busy you never got around to messaging him to let him know you’d be home late. Dr Who plays quietly in the background as you crouch down beside the couch, your hand moving up to trace over the freckles and imperfections on his face.

“Sweetheart?” You whisper, your hand carding through his messy hair, trying to wake him up in the happiest of ways, “Spencer, you’ve got to wake up for me, come on.” Your couch was small, definitely not Spencer-sized, and you knew if he slept like this he’d wake up with a sore back, if he didn’t have one already.

His eyes reluctantly flutter open, his face nuzzling further into the couch cushions. It takes him a second to realise who you are and where he is, but when he does he frowns, “I’m sorry,” He knew firsthand how difficult and unpredictable work hours could be, so he tried to maximise all his time with you, “I’m not good at this, I’m sorry I fell asleep.”