“I’m fine,” Spencer promised for likely the millionth time, knowing his words were futile and inherently meaningless against your worried mind.

The doctor had put him on bedrest for a couple weeks, wanting to give his leg more proper time to heal, but he was already antsy and desperate to get back to work.

He appreciated your care, really, more than he could put into words, but the guilt and embarrassment of being babied through his prolonged time off was more persistent — coupled with his desire to work had him desperate to do something.

“I’ll be alright, I promise,” he attempted to reassure you again, glancing up at you with a pleading and promising look, only to be met by your unrelenting stare of worry. “It was just a shot to the leg, baby, I’m not gonna die,” he reminded, a faint trace of a smile on his lips. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot at,” he added in hopes of downplaying it but the frown he was met with had him wincing at his choice of words.

“Sorry,” he sighed, shifting on the couch with a small wince when his leg moved in the wrong way. He settled back against the cushions, looking up at you apologetically. “I don’t want you to worry so much.”