She found Spencer curled up on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. His long fingers were threaded into his hair, clutching at the roots like he could hold himself together by force alone. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft gold of the lamp on her side of the bed.

She didn’t recognize him.

But she could see the pain.

Carefully, cautiously, she stepped closer. “Are… are you okay?”

He looked up. His face was pale and wet, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Something in him shattered more when he saw her—her eyes, her voice. As if just her asking that broke something wide open.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t. I just… heard you crying.” A pause. “Did something happen?”

Spencer blinked hard. She didn’t remember him. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either. But she still came to him. Still sat beside him, still reached out, hesitantly placing her hand over his.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, like she’d said it before.

He nodded, tears falling again, his hand tightening over hers. “You always say that.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile. “Then maybe I mean it.”

He wanted to tell her everything. That she used to wear lavender perfume, that she made the best pancakes, that she said yes under a thunderstorm and kissed him like she was stealing time. But none of that mattered if she couldn’t remember it.

“I’m Spencer,” he said softly.

She looked at him, studying him like a stranger she wanted to believe in. “Hi, Spencer. I’m…”

“You’re mine,” he whispered, eyes closing as she let him pull her into his arms.

She didn’t understand.

But she didn’t let go.