The tension in the apartment was palpable. Spencer hadn’t said a word since you left the hospital, his silence speaking volumes. He wasn’t one to yell or scold, but the weight of his worry pressed down on both of you like an anchor.

You sat on the couch, feeling like a child awaiting punishment, while he paced the room with a rigid posture, running a hand through his hair.

Finally, he stopped and turned to face you. “What were you thinking?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed hard. “I thought I could handle it.”

His jaw tightened, frustration flashing in his eyes. “That’s not the point,” he said, moving closer. “You put yourself in danger. You disobeyed a direct order. You got hurt.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the exhaustion in his face stopped you. This wasn’t just anger—it was fear. He sat down beside you with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

“I can’t lose you,” he admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t.”