Spencer had changed after prison.

It wasn’t just the way he carried himself—stiffer, more guarded, always hyper-aware of his surroundings. It was in the way he held onto silence like it was safer than speaking. How he stopped believing in the softness of things, in the simple joys he once let himself enjoy.

But you? You never let him forget that.

Which was why you were currently twirling around the kitchen, stirring pasta sauce with one hand and using a wooden spoon as a makeshift microphone in the other.

“Even if it’s just in your wildeeeest dreaaaaaams—” you sang, spinning on your heels with absolutely no regard for the splatters of sauce dotting the stove.

From his usual spot at the counter, with a book in his hands, Spencer sighed. “You’re going to spill that.”

You gasped. “Where is your sense of fun?”

“Buried somewhere between federal prison and the slow decay of my faith in humanity,” he deadpanned. Your heart squeezed a little at that. You knew he wasn’t joking, not really. But you also knew that if you let him, he’d stay in that place forever—locked inside the walls of his own mind.

So instead, you grinned and grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward you. “C’mon. Just one spin.”

He resisted, but not much. “I don’t dance.”

“You used to.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, but something in his gaze softened. “That was a long time ago.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then let’s bring it back.”

He stared at you for a beat too long and then, with a sigh he let you tug him forward, just enough for you to spin under his arm.

It was clumsy, hesitant. But you caught the flicker of surprise in his expression when he realized he didn’t hate it.

When you landed back against his chest, you beamed up at him. “See? Not so bad.”

Spencer shook his head, but there was something new there—something lighter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his fingers brushed over your waist.

“You make it easier.”