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Morning doesn’t announce itself all at once.
It arrives in pieces—thin bands of gray light slipping through the blinds, the low hum of the city waking up somewhere beyond the apartment walls, the faint clink of a mug against the countertop.
Spencer is awake before you. He always is.
He moves carefully, like the space itself might bruise if he’s too loud. The floorboards don’t creak under his feet anymore; he learned where to step months ago. He learned a lot of things without ever saying he was learning them—how much light is too much, how silence can be comforting instead of awkward, how mornings can be harder than nights.
He glances toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway just long enough to check your breathing.
Slow. Steady. Still asleep.
Good.
In the kitchen, he sets about the routine like muscle memory. Kettle on. Mug out—the one with the tiny chip in the rim you refuse to replace. He measures the tea leaves carefully, because once, when he rushed it, you’d grimaced through the bitterness without complaining. He noticed anyway.
The kettle whistles softly. He turns it off before it gets too loud.
By the time he carries the mug into the bedroom, the light has shifted enough to brush your face. Your brow is furrowed even in sleep, like your body never quite forgets how to brace itself. One hand is curled near your chest, fingers tense.
Spencer sets the mug down on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.
Your eyes flutter open slowly. There’s a moment—there always is—where you seem disoriented, like waking up means taking inventory of everything that hurts before you can move.
“Morning,” you whisper, voice rough.
He smiles, small and warm. “Morning.”
You try to push yourself up on your elbows and immediately wince. Your shoulders sag, frustration flickering across your face before you can stop it.
Spencer’s hand is there instantly, steady at your back—not pushing, not pulling. Just there.
“Easy,” he says.
“I’m fine,” you reply automatically, even as you lean into his touch.
He doesn’t argue. He never does. Instead, he shifts closer so you can sit up without strain, grabs the mug, and holds it while you wrap your hands around the warmth.
You take a sip, eyes closing.
“It’s perfect,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You sit there for a moment, sipping slowly, letting the heat settle your nerves. Outside, someone honks. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks. Life is moving at full speed without you, and the familiar guilt tugs at your chest.
“Sorry,” you say suddenly.
Spencer looks at you. “For what?”
“For… taking so long,” you shrug, eyes fixed on the mug. “I know you probably want to—”
“I don’t,” he says gently.
You glance up at him, startled.
“We’re not in a rush,” he continues. “It’s okay.”
You nod, but the apology still lingers between you like a habit you can’t quite break.
Spencer notices. Of course he does.
He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “You don’t have to apologize for existing,” he adds softly.
You huff out a quiet laugh, but your eyes sting anyway.
“You say that now,” you murmur. “Give it time.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts so he’s sitting beside you properly, legs folded under him on the bed. When he speaks, his voice is steady—unwavering.
“I’ve had time,” he says.
Your chest tightens at that.
You finish your tea slowly while Spencer talks about nothing in particular—an idea for a sketch, something Shayne said yesterday, a game he watched a streamer play. He fills the space easily, like he’s building a buffer between you and your thoughts.
When the mug is empty, he takes it from your hands and sets it aside.
“Do you want to stay here a bit?” he asks. “Or move to the couch?”
You hesitate. Your body feels heavy today, like gravity has doubled overnight.
“The couch,” you decide. “But… slowly.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Always.”
He helps you up, one step at a time. He doesn’t carry you—not unless you ask—but he stays close enough that you know you won’t fall. When you settle onto the couch, he drapes a blanket over your legs, tucking it in at the edges like it belongs there.
You watch him move around the room, the quiet competence of someone who knows your needs without making them a spectacle.
And despite the warmth, despite the care, the thought creeps in anyway.
How long before this gets old?
You curl your fingers into the blanket, swallowing the question before it can reach your lips.
Spencer returns with his own mug and sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours. He leans his head gently against yours.
You don’t say anything.
But for now, neither does he—and somehow, that’s enough.
~~~~~
The good days are deceptive.
They start small—your body doesn’t ache quite as loudly when you wake up, the fog in your head lifts just enough that thoughts line up instead of colliding. You move through the morning without wincing, without pausing every few steps to breathe through the discomfort.
On days like this, you almost feel normal.
Almost.
You’re halfway through the kitchen when Spencer looks up from his phone, brow lifting in mild surprise. “Hey,” he says. “You’re up.”
You nod, already reaching for the cabinet. “Yeah. I thought I’d make breakfast.”
He stands immediately. Not rushing—just ready. “I can—”
“I’ve got it,” you say quickly, a little too quickly.
He hesitates, watching you. There’s a carefulness in his eyes that makes something twist in your chest.
“I’m okay,” you add, softer. “Promise.”
He studies you for a moment, then nods. “Okay. I’m here if you need me.”
You turn back to the counter, trying to ignore the way your hands shake just slightly as you crack the eggs. The pan is heavier than you remember. The sound of it hitting the stovetop is sharper, louder.
Still, you push through.
You need this. You need to feel useful. Capable. Like you’re not just a series of accommodations and rescheduled plans.
Spencer stays nearby, pretending to scroll through his phone while very obviously watching your posture, the tension in your shoulders. You feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades.
“I really am fine,” you say, forcing a lightness into your voice.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m just… here.”
The eggs start to smell good. Normal. Your chest loosens a bit.
Then the fatigue hits.
It’s sudden, like someone reached in and flipped a switch. Your arms feel too heavy to lift, your vision blurs at the edges. You brace a hand against the counter, breath catching as your heart stutters.
Spencer notices instantly.
“Hey,” he says, phone forgotten. He’s beside you in seconds, hand hovering near your elbow without touching. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice wobbles this time.
You take one step and the room tilts.
Spencer’s hands are on you then—gentle, grounding, solid. He steers you toward a chair and lowers you into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Sit. Just sit.”
“I was almost done,” you protest weakly.
He turns off the stove with one hand. “I know. You did so well.”
You stare at the floor, shame crawling up your spine. Your head drops into your hands.
“I really thought I could do it today.”
Spencer crouches in front of you so he’s at eye level. He doesn’t tell you not to feel bad. He doesn’t tell you to cheer up.
He just says, “Some days don’t care what we plan.”
You swallow hard.
“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that I can’t just—” You gesture vaguely. “Do things.”
“I know,” he says quietly.
He takes your hands, rubbing warmth back into your fingers. There’s no frustration in his touch. No impatience. Just steadiness.
“I don’t want you to think you have to prove anything,” he adds.
You laugh bitterly. “Kinda feels like I do.”
He frowns—not at you, but at the idea itself. “To who?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
Spencer stands, finishes cooking, and brings a plate over to the table. He sets it in front of you, then sits across from you instead of beside you this time—giving you space, giving you dignity.
“Eat,” he says gently.
You do.
Later, when the energy from breakfast carries you just far enough to be dangerous, you insist on going out with him. It’s just a quick thing—a store run, a coffee pickup. Nothing big.
“I can handle it,” you say. “I want to.”
He watches your face, then nods. “Okay. But we’ll take the car.”
The store is louder than you expect. Brighter. Every sound seems to echo inside your skull. By the time you reach the checkout line, your chest feels tight, breaths shallow.
You clutch the edge of the cart, trying to ground yourself.
Spencer steps closer, lowering his voice. “You good?”
You shake your head.
Without hesitation, he abandons the cart, slips an arm around your shoulders, and guides you outside. Cool air hits your face and you gasp, relief crashing over you so hard it almost hurts.
You lean into him, embarrassed and grateful all at once.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I really thought—”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head, right there in the parking lot.
“You don’t have to be right every time,” he says. “You just have to be honest. Thank you for telling me.”
You nod against his chest, letting him hold you until the world feels manageable again.
Still, as he drives you home, the thought won’t leave.
How many times can someone step in before they start resenting it?
You don’t voice it.
But Spencer’s hand stays on your knee the whole way home, warm and unwavering, like he already knows what you’re afraid to ask.
~~~~~
The thing about guilt is that it’s patient.
It doesn’t announce itself with panic or pain. It waits. It curls into the background of your thoughts and watches for the smallest opening—an overheard sentence, a rescheduled plan, a sigh that lingers a second too long.
You’re curled up on the couch when it happens.
Spencer is in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and familiar. You’re not eavesdropping. You never are. The apartment is just quiet enough that words drift.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll have to skip tonight.”
There’s a pause.
“No, everything’s okay,” he continues quickly. “Just… yeah. Another time.”
Your stomach drops.
You don’t hear what comes next. The blood rushing in your ears drowns it out, thoughts spiraling faster than you can slow them.
Skip tonight.
Another time.
You stare at the muted TV, not really seeing it. You can picture it so easily—Spencer cancelling plans again, making excuses again, reshaping his life around the limitations of yours.
By the time he hangs up and turns back toward the living room, you’ve already pulled away emotionally, like someone quietly closing a door.
“Hey,” he says, easy smile in place. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you reply, too fast. “Just tired.”
He nods, accepting it for now, and sinks down beside you. He drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Normally, you’d lean into the warmth without thinking.
Tonight, you stay stiff.
Spencer notices.
He always does.
“You sure?” he asks softly.
You hum in response, noncommittal. Your eyes stay fixed on the TV.
The rest of the evening passes in fragments. Spencer talks about his day, about something Ian did that made him laugh, about a sketch idea he’s half-excited, half-embarrassed about. You respond where appropriate, but there’s a hollowness to your answers that even you can hear.
When he reaches for your hand, you let him—but your fingers don’t lace with his like they usually do.
It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it.
Spencer doesn’t.
Later, when you’re getting ready for bed, he leans against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed loosely.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says.
You keep your eyes on the sink. “Just one of those days.”
He considers you for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
But he doesn’t leave.
You brush your teeth, rinse, avoid the mirror as long as you can. When you finally look up, his reflection is there—watching you with something gentle and searching.
“What did I miss?” he asks quietly.
Your chest tightens.
“Nothing,” you insist. “Spence, please. I’m fine.”
He exhales slowly, then steps closer. He doesn’t crowd you. He just rests his hands on the counter on either side of you, not trapping—anchoring.
“I’m not asking because I think you’re broken,” he says. “I’m asking because I care.”
That almost makes it worse.
You swallow hard, turning away from him. “I just… I heard you on the phone earlier.”
His brow furrows. “Oh.”
“You cancelled again,” you say, the words coming out smaller than you intend. “You always do.”
“I didn’t mind,” he replies immediately.
“I know you didn’t,” you snap—then wince. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He shakes his head. “Hey. It’s okay. Just… talk to me.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping. The energy drains out of you all at once, leaving behind only the weight of the thought you’ve been carrying for weeks.
“It just feels like your life keeps shrinking,” you whisper. “Because of me.”
Spencer sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “That’s not—”
“You don’t go out as much. You reschedule things. You leave early. And you always say it’s fine, but I see it,” you continue, voice trembling now. “I see how much you adjust. And I don’t want to be the reason you miss out on things.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His jaw tightens—not in anger, but in something like resolve.
“My life isn’t smaller,” he says carefully. “It’s just different.”
You shake your head. “That’s not fair to you.”
Spencer reaches for your hands, holding them firmly this time. “I didn’t say it had to be fair. I said it was mine.”
Tears blur your vision.
“You shouldn’t have to choose between me and… everything else,” you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly. “I’m not choosing between. I’m choosing you.”
You pull your hands back, overwhelmed. “That’s what scares me.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.
Spencer doesn’t push. He just sits there, steady as ever, letting you breathe through it.
Finally, he says, “We don’t have to solve this tonight.”
You nod, exhausted.
He stands and helps you under the covers, tucking you in like he has a hundred times before. When he turns off the light, you expect him to climb into bed beside you.
Instead, he pauses.
“I’m here,” he says softly. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”
You stare into the darkness, heart aching with everything you didn’t say.
The word sits heavy in your chest.
Burden.
You don’t speak it yet.
But it’s getting harder to pretend it isn’t there.
~~~~~
The bad days don’t ask permission.
They arrive heavy and unannounced, settling into your body before you’re even fully awake. Your head throbs. Your limbs feel distant, uncooperative, like they belong to someone else. Even breathing feels like work.
You know it’s one of those days the moment you try to sit up and can’t.
The room tilts. Nausea creeps in at the edges. You lie back down, staring at the ceiling, fighting the familiar wave of frustration that follows close behind the pain.
Beside you, Spencer stirs.
“Hey,” he murmurs sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow. “I don’t think I can… today.”
That’s all it takes.
He’s awake instantly, concern sharpening his features. He sits up, brushing your hair back from your face. “Okay,” he says calmly. “That’s okay.”
Your chest tightens anyway.
“I ruined today,” you whisper. “We were supposed to—”
He shakes his head. “No. We thought we might. That’s different.”
You close your eyes, overwhelmed. Everything hurts. Your body, your head, the way guilt presses against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Spencer helps you sit up slowly, guiding your breathing when it turns shallow and panicked.
“In through your nose,” he murmurs. “Out through your mouth. I’ve got you.”
You cling to his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like an anchor. The room stops spinning eventually, but the emotional weight doesn’t lift with it.
The rest of the day blurs together.
Spencer brings you water. Meds. Toast you can barely eat. He dims the lights, closes the curtains, moves around the apartment with the quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this before and will do it again without complaint.
Each small act feels heavier than the last.
By the time afternoon rolls around, you’re curled on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, staring at nothing. Your body aches in that deep, bone-weary way that sleep won’t touch.
Spencer kneels in front of you, resting his arms on the couch cushion. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” he asks softly.
You shake your head. “Everything.”
He nods, accepting that answer without pressing.
When the panic hits, it’s sudden.
Your heart races. Your breath stutters. The world feels too close, too loud, too much. You clutch at your chest, gasping.
Spencer is there immediately.
“Hey, hey,” he says, voice low and steady. He takes your hands, grounding you. “Look at me. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
You try to breathe. You really do. But the tears come anyway, hot and relentless.
“I can’t do this,” you sob. “I can’t keep doing this to you.”
He pulls you into his arms, holding you firmly, like he’s trying to keep you tethered to the moment.
“You’re not doing anything to me,” he insists.
“Yes, I am,” you choke out. “I ruin plans. I ruin days. I ruin—” Your voice breaks. “I ruin your life.”
Spencer stiffens slightly, then pulls back just enough to look at you.
“Hey,” he says, firmer now. “No.”
But the dam has already broken.
“I’m so tired of being the reason things stop,” you cry. “I’m tired of watching you give things up and pretend it doesn’t matter. I’m tired of apologizing just for existing.”
Your chest heaves. Your hands shake.
“I’m a burden,” you whisper.
The word lands between you like shattered glass.
Spencer goes still.
For a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking—and that terrifies you more than anything else.
Then he cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away your tears. His touch is gentle, but his voice is unwavering.
“Don’t ever call yourself that,” he says.
You shake your head weakly. “It’s true. You take care of me all the time. You rearrange everything. You shouldn’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cuts in.
“You say that now—”
“I’ve been saying it,” he replies. “Every day.”
You laugh through tears, broken and disbelieving. “One day you’re going to wake up and realize it’s too much.”
Spencer presses his forehead to yours.
“If loving you ever becomes too much,” he says quietly, “I’ll tell you. But that day isn’t today. And it hasn’t been any of the days before this one.”
You collapse against him, sobbing into his shoulder. He holds you without hesitation, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back, grounding you through the storm.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper over and over. “I’m so sorry I’m like this.”
He tightens his arms around you.
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I love you anyway.”
You cling to him, exhausted, heart aching, afraid to hope—but needing to hear what comes next.
You don’t stop crying all at once.
The sobs fade into shaky breaths, then into silence broken only by the quiet press of Spencer’s hand against your back. Your face is buried in his shoulder, his shirt damp with tears, and he doesn’t shift away—not even an inch.
When you finally pull back, your eyes burn, throat raw.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, out of reflex more than anything else.
Spencer exhales through his nose, something like patience and determination wrapped together. He lifts your chin gently, just enough that you have to look at him.
“No,” he says softly but firmly. “We’re not doing that.”
Your lip trembles. “Doing what?”
“Apologizing for being sick,” he replies. “Apologizing for needing help. Apologizing for being human.”
You look away, but he keeps one hand at your jaw, grounding without forcing.
“You think I’m keeping score,” he continues. “Like one day I’ll look at a list and decide you’ve taken more than you’ve given.”
Your silence is answer enough.
Spencer shakes his head. “That’s not how this works.”
He shifts so you’re sitting together on the couch, knees touching, his body angled toward yours—open, present.
“I don’t wake up and think, ‘Okay, how much can I give today before I hit my limit?’” he says. “I wake up and think, ‘How do I take care of the person I love?’”
Your chest aches at the word love, heavy and tender.
“You don’t see the things you give back,” he adds. “You don’t see how you make me slow down. How you make me more patient. Kinder. How you make my life quieter in ways I didn’t even know I needed.”
Tears slip down your cheeks again, but these feel different. Softer.
“You shouldn’t have to be my caretaker,” you whisper.
He nods. “You’re right. I’m not.”
You blink. “You’re not?”
“I’m your partner,” he says simply. “Sometimes that means I lean on you. Sometimes it means you lean on me. Sometimes it means I’m the one making tea and holding you together when your body won’t cooperate.”
He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “That’s not a burden. That’s a relationship.”
You let out a shaky breath. “What if it’s always like this?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then we learn how to live in it.”
“What if it gets worse?”
“Then we adapt.”
“What if you get tired?” you ask, voice barely audible.
Spencer’s expression softens, something achingly tender settling into his features. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“I’m already tired,” he admits quietly. “Everyone is, sometimes.”
You stiffen. He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“But I’m not tired of you,” he finishes. “I’m tired with you.”
The distinction hits you like a revelation.
“I choose you,” he says. “On the good days. On the bad days. On the days where getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain.”
His hand slides to your back, holding you close. “And if you ever start to feel like you’re too much—if that word creeps back in—I need you to tell me.”
You nod slowly.
“Because I won’t let you carry that alone,” he continues. “And I won’t let you decide for me when I’ve had enough.”
You press your forehead to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.
He wraps his arms around you fully, holding you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
“You’re not going to,” he promises.
For the first time in a long while, the fear loosens its grip—just a little.
Not because everything is fixed.
But because you’re not facing it alone.
~~~~~
The world feels quieter after you say everything out loud.
Not lighter—not fixed—but steadier, like something inside you has finally been set down instead of carried. Your body still aches, fatigue still hums beneath your skin, but the sharp edge of guilt has dulled.
Spencer stands first, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
You hesitate, old habits flaring. “I can—”
He squeezes your fingers once. “With me.”
That’s enough.
You let him guide you to the bedroom at your own pace. There’s no rush, no pressure to be anything other than what you are right now—tired, sore, emotionally wrung out.
He pulls the curtains closed, leaving the room in a muted twilight. The bed is already made the way you like it—pillows stacked just right, the soft blanket folded at the foot. You notice it now in a way you hadn’t before.
“How’d you know?” you ask quietly.
He smiles faintly. “I pay attention.”
He helps you sit, then kneels to slip your socks off gently, one foot at a time. He pauses, glancing up at you.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
The air feels calmer, kinder. He sits beside you, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers gentle as if you might bruise.
You watch him for a moment, really watch him—the concentration in his expression, the care in every movement. It strikes you then how intentional his love is.
He helps you lie back, adjusts the pillows until your neck stops aching, tucks the blanket around you like he’s done it a hundred times—but tonight, it feels different. Tonight, it feels chosen.
He reaches for the lamp, hesitating. “Light on or off?”
“Low,” you reply.
He sets it to the softest glow and sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing slow, steady circles over your skin.
“You don’t have to sleep,” he says. “Just rest.”
You close your eyes anyway.
The tension drains from your body in small increments. You become aware of how exhausted you really are—how much energy it’s taken just to exist today.
“I don’t know how to stop feeling guilty,” you admit quietly.
Spencer hums, thoughtful. “You don’t have to stop today.”
You glance at him. “I don’t?”
“No,” he says. “You just have to let me be here while you feel it.”
Something in your chest loosens at that.
He shifts onto the bed, stretching out beside you but leaving space, giving you the option. When you instinctively curl closer, he smiles and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain or justify or apologize.”
You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It’s grounding in a way nothing else is.
“Can I just… rest?” you ask.
His hand strokes your arm, slow and soothing. “That’s all I want you to do.”
You let your eyes close.
The apartment hums quietly around you—the fridge, the distant traffic, the muffled sounds of the city continuing on without asking anything from you. Spencer stays still, like he’s afraid to disturb the moment.
At some point, you drift—not fully asleep, not fully awake. Your body softens, tension bleeding out of your muscles bit by bit.
When you stir, Spencer is still there.
He hasn’t moved.
You shift slightly, testing the reality of it.
“Hey,” you whisper.
“Hey,” he replies immediately, like he never stopped listening.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
He smiles down at you. “I wanted to.”
You swallow. “Thank you. For… everything.”
He presses a kiss to your hair. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”
You let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “I’m trying to learn that.”
“I know,” he says. “And I’ll keep reminding you.”
Your hand drifts to his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric the way they had earlier—only this time, there’s no panic attached to it. Just closeness.
You let yourself rest fully then, allowing the weight of the day to settle somewhere safe.
Spencer stays with you as you drift off, his arm a constant, reassuring presence.
Not because he has to.
Because he chooses to.
Your breathing slows, syncing with his. The ache in your body doesn’t disappear, but it becomes manageable—muted by warmth and safety.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel him brush your hair back from your face.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
And for once, you believe him.