It’s been almost seven months since you and Spencer had started dating — you had met at a museum all those months back, and it sparked into something much more.

But you knew you weren’t Spencer’s first girlfriend, even if you hadn’t discussed past relationships before. Well… you had. You’d thrown subtle hints to the conversation out, asking him who his first kiss was, even outright asking once.

He always avoided answering, shifting the conversation to something new, trying not to let you catch sight of the pain.

One night you go out with some friends. You’d moved in with Spencer around a month ago — neither of you thought it was too soon, and you were right. It was perfect.

But tonight you come home drunk, fumbling with the keys before the door opens from the inside, revealing Spencer — he’s already wearing his pyjamas, hair messy and eyes soft, clearly having been awaiting your arrival since you left.

But something in him shifts when he sees the lazy smile on your face, smells the scent of alcohol in your breath, and he shrinks away a bit. But you’re too drunk to notice, stumbling into the apartment and kicking your heels off.

You never drank around Spencer. You knew he didn’t like drinking himself, but he’d never said why. It was just a known fact. And you didn’t drink often, so this was the first time you’d come home to him drunk… and it brought him back.

The arguing. The glass shattering. The verbal and physical abuse from the person who was supposed to love him, from the person who used him at his most vulnerable. His first girlfriend had seemed so perfect at first, at least to him, his warped version of what love was. Because he didn’t know. He knew everything, but love?

It wasn’t until he met you that he learned the definition. But now, in the face of the alcohol in your system, it all came rushing back.

“I missed you baby,” you say, voice slurring a bit as you step closer.

But the subtle flinch back sobers something within you.