You’d recently gotten shot in the shoulder on a case.

While you were no longer in the hospital, you weren’t allowed to lift your arm above ninety degrees.

Your best friend and direct work partner, Spencer, decided to help you with that.

You were seated in front of your bathroom sink, looking up at Spencer as he washed your hair for you.

His touch was so gentle, his veiny fingers carefully kneading the shampoo through your hair.

He was doing that thing with his eyebrows that he did whenever he was concentrated on something.

His eyes flicked down to meet yours for a brief moment, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

“What?” He asked through a soft laugh, his eyes returning to your hair.