the front door creaks open, and the quiet hum of an ordinary weekday follows you inside. backpacks and jackets weigh down your arms, while tanner and millie tumble through the doorway, leftover school energy buzzing through their little bodies. they kick off their shoes, voices overlapping in half-told stories as they race toward the kitchen in search of snacks. but then you see him. frank is on the couch. not his usual late arrival after another brutal shift, not the shuffle through the door long after dinner. he’s home early. stretched out across the cushions like he’s trying to disappear into them. still in his scrubs, shoes off, head tipped back against the armrest. the tv isn’t even on. his eyes flick to yours the second you enter, and for a moment neither of you speaks.

you lower your voice, send the kids upstairs. nudging your shoes off, you press a hand to tanner’s shoulder when he hesitates, reminding him about homework. you’ll call them when it’s time for dinner. the chatter dies down as they thunder up the stairs, and soon the house is hushed, broken only by the faint creak of floorboards overhead.

frank doesn’t move. his posture is loose, almost slumped, but there’s tension in the way his jaw tightens when he finally says, “you’re early.” it was a half day for the kids.

you answer that so is he, stepping further into the room. his expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between exhaustion and defeat.

his eyes flick to the blank tv screen. “got sent home.” the words fall flat, without cushion or context.

your chest tightens. you leave your shoes crooked by the door, ask him what happened. frank exhales, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands restless as they knot together.

“robby…” he starts, voice low, almost swallowed. then he cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, sharp with frustration. “doesn’t matter.”

the air turns heavy, like the whole house is holding its breath. you move closer, slow, easing into the armchair across from him, steady even as your pulse hammers.

he scrubs his hands down his face, elbows digging into his thighs. when he finally speaks, his voice is brittle, edges showing. “he thinks i’m using again.” a short, bitter laugh slips out, hollow.

earlier, at the hospital, the whole thing cracked open. robby had cornered him during another shift, the patient logs not adding up, the missing doses undeniable. a new fucking med student had narc’d on him. frank tried to deflect, to joke, to shrug it off like it was some clerical error. but robby wouldn’t let it go.

you lean forward, whisper it — are you?

his head snaps up, eyes flashing, wounded and defensive all at once. “jesus. you too?”

and the look in his eyes says it all.