#spaeve

The moment you looked up from the pages of your book, you felt it — that same ache that had begun to settle into the spaces between you and Spencer. It had always been there, quietly simmering beneath the surface.

He swore that this couldn’t become anything real. That he didn’t have room in his life for more. And yet in the dark, when he thought you were asleep, he would trace slow, absentminded patterns on your back. He’d press a kiss to your forehead with aching reverence. He’d run his fingers through your hair and twist it into messy braids. He’d hold you like he didn’t want morning to come.

In those moments, his actions let it slip — how much he felt, how much he feared. You just didn’t know what scared him more: loving you, or losing you.

You’d met him nearly six months ago at a small café near your apartment. He’d helped you pick up scattered papers when you’d accidentally knocked them off the table in a caffeine-deprived haze. It had started innocently enough — a shared laugh, a tentative friendship. But within a few weeks, that friendship blurred into late-night calls, lingering touches, and a relationship that was carefully unlabeled.

Spencer had made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t looking for anything serious, setting boundaries that had seemed reasonable at first, even though you’d felt something deeper brewing from the very start. You’d told yourself it was enough, that you could handle being close to him without truly having him.

But every time his eyes softened when he looked at you, every time his fingers brushed your arm with tenderness, your heart betrayed you, yearning for things he’d never promised.

Spencer was across the room now, standing near his bookshelf. His fingers traced the spine of an old, familiar volume — The Narrative of John Smith.

The copy with Maeve’s inscription inside.

He’d mentioned her once, in vague terms, during a late-night conversation that had turned unexpectedly quiet. You’d pieced the rest together on your own — through the way he hesitated around certain topics, the book on his shelf, the sorrow that clung to him when he thought no one was watching, the obituary you found online. Maeve was the elephant in the room — a quiet ghost he never spoke about, yet whose haunting presence seemed to shape everything he did.

You cleared your throat, the soft sound carrying across his living room. Spencer turned, startled, hand dropping from the shelf as though caught doing something forbidden.

“Hey,” he said softly, forcing a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Did you want some more tea?”

He’d already made your favorite — earl grey with a splash of vanilla. He always remembered exactly how you liked it, and each cup felt like proof that he cared, even if he’d never let himself admit it.

“I’m okay,” you said, setting your book aside. Spencer’s gaze followed your movements carefully, almost cautiously. You felt the distance between you more keenly than ever.

He crossed the room, sitting beside you, careful not to touch. But then he sighed softly, leaning in just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Fleeting warmth. You remembered a night weeks ago, laughing softly as you lay tangled in sheets, how he’d pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingertips tracing idle patterns on your back as if mapping something precious. It had felt like more. So much more.

But there was one moment that never left you.

A month ago, you’d had a nightmare — vivid and shaking and breathless. You hadn’t meant to wake him, but the panic clawing at your chest had been too much to hide. Spencer had, without a word, pulled you into his arms. He’d cradled you like you were breakable, like you mattered, whispering things into your hair you pretended not to hear.

“You’re okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

“I’m here, baby.”

And then, softer:

“I can’t lose you too.”

You never asked him about it afterward, and he never brought it up. But you’d replayed those words every night since. Because for one fleeting moment, the fear and love in his voice wrapped around you like truth. Like maybe, deep down, he knew he wanted more.

You turned to him slightly, your knee brushing his. He looked at you then — really looked. There was something behind his eyes that made your breath catch: reverence, affection, maybe even longing. And then, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry or rushed. It was soft. Thoughtful. The kind of kiss that asked nothing and gave everything. For a moment, you let yourself believe it meant something more. You felt your chest tighten as he pulled back, his gaze still on you.

But he didn’t look away. Even after the kiss ended, he kept watching you like he didn’t want the moment to leave. Like he couldn’t bear it if it did. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes and back again, searching, waiting, almost afraid to speak. And for the briefest second, you could see it — everything he wasn’t saying. The ache. The need. The apology. The want.

You felt your pulse spike with something dangerous — hope.

He started to lean back in, and that’s when you asked.

“Spencer,” you said quietly, voice tight with a hesitation you’d held back for months. “What are we doing?”

He blinked, then gave a small, deflective smile. “I mean… we’re on the couch, drinking tea, kissing… hopefully about to have sex?”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even blink. You just looked at him, your gaze steady.

“No,” you said. “You know what I mean. What are we doing?”

His smile faded. His eyes lifted sharply to meet yours. There was a brief flicker of something raw that vanished almost instantly. He withdrew his hand, turning slightly away.

“You know what this is,” he said carefully, voice steady and calm. Too calm. “We agreed from the beginning—”

You cut him off, your heart hammering. “Yeah. We did. Trust me, I remember. No expectations. No feelings. Just… sex and comfort.”

He stayed silent, and you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders.

“But it stopped being just that months ago,” you said, your voice cracking. “Don’t pretend I’m the only one who felt that shift.”

He shook his head, quietly. “It hasn’t changed for me.”

You stared at him. “Bullshit. Then why did you start holding me after? Why do you kiss my forehead and call me baby? Why do you look at me like you—”

You stopped yourself, but the words were already there, hanging in the air between you.

“You don’t get to look at me like that and pretend this doesn’t matter,” you finished softly, the pain making your voice tremble. “You hold me like I’m precious and kiss me like you mean it and then act like I imagined the whole thing.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping. “It’s complicated.”

“Why?” you pressed. “Because it feels pretty fucking simple to me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, drawing a measured breath. You saw it then — the weight he carried, the fear he never admitted.

“Is this about her?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer froze, eyes opening to stare blankly at the floor. The silence stretched painfully, each second deepening your ache.

You thought back to the time when the lines first started to blur when he’d brought you out onto his balcony late at night, sharing constellations through a telescope. You remembered how his fingers had wrapped around yours as he pointed out each star, his voice low and reverent, and how he’d paused, just once, to say your name like it was a lifeline. It had taken everything in you not to tell him you loved him then.

“Spencer,” you said again, gently but firmly. “Is this about Maeve?”

His shoulders slumped, and when he finally spoke, it was almost inaudible. “It’s always been about her.”

It wasn’t anger in his voice, or bitterness — just unbearable sadness. A sadness that had built walls around him, brick by brick, until even you couldn’t break through.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tears that suddenly blurred your vision. “I’m sorry you lost her. I really, really am. But Spencer, you think you’re protecting me by keeping me at a distance, when really, all it’s doing is hurting me more.”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was quiet, shaking slightly.

“Everyone I care about gets hurt. Or leaves. I can’t—” He broke off, shaking his head.

You waited, your chest tight, watching the way he folded into himself like he was trying to disappear.

“Spencer,” you murmured, reaching out to cup his cheek gently, turning him toward you. His eyes were glassy, haunted. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

“You say that now,” he whispered. “But something always happens. It’s not safe. Loving me — it’s never safe.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you said. “And pushing me away doesn’t make either of us hurt any less.”

He looked at you then, deep and lingering. There was a look of desperation in his eyes, like he was trying to memorize you in case this was the last time. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“Every time I get close to something good, I lose it. Or it breaks. Or it gets taken from me. And I don’t know how to stop believing that it’s me. That I’m the reason.”

You blinked against the sting in your eyes. “You’re not.”

“I don’t know how to be sure of that,” he said. “Not anymore.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already moving. Gently. Deliberately. Putting space between you like he always did.

You remembered other nights, quiet moments after intimacy, when he’d stared at you just like this — like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Now he rose from the couch, gaze lingering on you once more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You rose too, heart heavy but no longer quiet.

“Why do you even keep doing this?” you asked, voice sharper now, raw with frustration. “Why do you keep calling me and wanting me here if you don’t actually want me?”

He flinched, just slightly. “Wanting you isn’t the problem.”

“You don’t get to keep me this close just to push me away whenever it scares you,” you said. “That’s not protecting me, Spencer. That’s control.”

His expression hardened. “Control? You think that’s what this is?”

“I think you don’t know what to do with something good when it’s handed to you,” you said, breath shaking. “You wrap it in fear masquerading as bubble wrap and then act like you’re doing everyone a favor by holding it at arm’s length. And you’re keeping me in your back pocket, expecting me to come over and hold you and fuck you anytime you call, all while refusing to actually let this be what it really is.”

Spencer stood frozen, breathing hard. His jaw clenched like he was swallowing everything he really wanted to say.

“You don’t understand what it’s like,” he said finally.

“You’re right,” you replied, quieter now. “I don’t. Because you won’t let me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was worse — it was hollow, bottomless, the kind of silence you didn’t come back from.

You grabbed your coat and your keys, your heart splintering a little more with every step. He didn’t move. Didn’t try to stop you.

At the door, you paused.

“Goodbye, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth like he might beg you to stay, but the words never came.

So you left.

As you stepped out into the hallway, the weight of it all caught up to you. You walked slowly, like your body already missed the feel of his, tears rolling down your cheeks. Your chest ached with the echo of things he wouldn’t say. You thought about the way he kissed your forehead, the way his hands memorized your skin like a map. You had wanted so badly to believe those touches meant something. But even if they did, none of it mattered if he couldn’t say it out loud.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

—

The next three nights found you curled on your own couch, wrapped in a blanket, trying — and failing — to read. Your thoughts kept drifting back to Spencer, to the sadness in his voice, to the quiet way he’d looked at you like he wished things could be different.

Your phone buzzed beside you on the cushion, jolting you from your thoughts. Your heart leapt into your throat as you stared at the unopened message hovering there, bright and hopeful and terrifying all at once. Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertain.

You took a deep breath.

And then you made a choice.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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