you can't catch a falling star

Despite his agreement, he still took the drive home as an opportunity to share his collection of statistics regarding infections, concussions, and the like. He knew you were strong, that you could take care of yourself. Even so, he’d be lying through his teeth if he said his worry for your safety wasn’t always an unyielding buzz in his mind, a consistent white noise that had been playing since the moment he met you. Now, in your shared bathroom with the first aid kit splayed on the counter below, you carefully tend to the injury and hope not to worry him too much.

“You okay?” The question pulls your attention away from the mirror, eyes flitting over towards the source of the gentle voice. There stood Spencer in the doorway, a concerned yet knowing expression displayed on his soft features. Your eyes make it a point to avoid his gaze, well aware of the “I told you so” look waiting for you within it.

“Mhm,” You hum, shifting your focus back to pressing the alcohol pad over the wound, wincing in pain from the stinging sensation. “I’m alright.” Your attempts at convincing him are clearly not as effective as you hoped, given the worried furrow settled between his eyebrows as he takes a tentative step towards you.

“Can I?” He asks, stepping close enough to envelop you in the scent of his cologne, faint from the long day but still ever so comforting and familiar. “You don’t have to take care of it all by yourself.” His words have an added heaviness that follow along with them, a meaning running deeper than just him tending to your injury, and you’re eager to alter the mood as best as you can.

“Of course, go ahead.” Your hand ceases its movements and falls back to your side as you watch him pick up the pad and set the entirety of his focus on you. Spencer reaches to tilt your chin up, allowing himself a better view of the gash. You try to ignore the feeling his touch ignites in you as he holds your face and begins wiping at the cut, touch so delicate and light it would barely register to you if you weren’t aware of what was happening.

That is, until he applied more pressure and the burning feeling returned at once, pulling a hiss of pain from you at the suddenness of the sensation.

“I know,” He all but cooed, brushing the stray hair out of your face. “I’m almost done.” His assurances were whispered in such a soft tone making you practically melt in his hold, the intimacy of the situation bordering on overwhelming. Opening up and accepting comfort is never easy, but it’s almost second nature with Spencer. It feels as though he defines a new level of gentleness as he loves you, irrevocably and fully, and he grants you the gift of being able to do the same to him.

He gives you a once-over after he’s finished, admiring both his work and the way you look under the glow of the warm bathroom lighting. He leans in to press a featherlight kiss over the bandage, the cheesy display of affection causing you to tuck your head into his shoulder in an attempt to hide the soppy smile making its way onto your face.