After Maeve, falling in love was deemed as easy as crawling helplessly from a black hole, doomed to be sucked back into a terrifying forever of endless stretches of empty abyss. Statistically, with the 7.442 billion people residing on Earth coincided with the 677,014 people filling D.C alone, there must be someone who could spark the same feeling, or even half of a fleeting flame. Unfortunately, and much to his surprise, statistics were wildly irrelevant in the face of ceaseless torment and internal torture, plagued by grief and her image just inches out of reach, dangling in his subconscious in a taunt.

Despite his aversion and proclamation of the unlikelihood he could fall he love again, he crept up on him. Unsuspecting and blind to the prospect until it came crashing down on him in a stolen night. You’d been there, when rock bottom had become the closest thing to proper home for him, through biting migraines, field injuries, and the loss of his life. As over a year passed since Maeve’s death, he found himself forged in the fire of affection once more, though, this time, he was allowed it to be reality.

Rushed in the eyes of many, Spencer proposed, a year subsequent your relationship’s start and two years suit of Maeve. Perhaps love moves faster with close to a decade of friendship supporting it, skipping over useless icebreakers and the need to "get to know one another". Trauma bonds, working beside one another through every horror faced on the job, nearly instantaneously skips the awkward stages. And as age slowly rose, wasted time became undesirable. Why wait?

Spencer set the last of the dishes in their designated cabinets, soft clinks of ceramic and glass filling the otherwise voided silence. With a soft thud of the wooden cabinet meeting its frame in closure, a pair of mismatched socks padded its way to your form perched on the edge of your shared bed.

"Something wrong?" Spencer questioned worriedly, watching your troubled gaze fixate directly at the engagement ring adorning your finger — a promise of his undying devotion now seeming to be the unfortunate bearer or untimely news. The obnoxious habit of profiling took hold of his mind, steering his emotions into analytical thinking, scrutinizing your behaviour to decipher every emotion hidden behind the eyes he so loved.

"Are you," he begun to ask, a noose of pained panic choking off his words before they could escape his lips. "Talk to me," he pleaded instead, landing on his knees before your hunched form, sat precariously on the edge of the bed. Kneeled on the floor, his hands gently encased your calves, fingers tracing delicate but fretful patterns onto your skin, worry riddling his habitually soft features.

"You’re not…" an anxious paused, broken by his nervous gaze darting to his hands before returning to your eyes. "You’re not having second thoughts, right?" he asked, voice weak and wavering as the words stung like acid, burning his throat into nothing but a scarce attempt of his voice. "An- And if you are, please… just tell me. I don’t-" he shook his head, threat of tears aching behind his irises. "Just talk to me so I can make this right."