He notices it in the way her hands won’t stay still.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Against the cheap office desk, nails clicking like a countdown he can’t quite place. It’s been irritating him for weeks—her constant humming, the too-bright smile, the way she laughs a second too late at things that aren’t funny.

Today, it’s worse.

“You’re going to drill a hole through the table,” he mutters without looking up from his screen.

She doesn’t answer.

That alone makes him glance over.

She’s staring at nothing, pupils a little too wide, lips parted like she forgot what she was about to say. The usual sharp edge in her expression is gone, replaced by something floaty. Detached.

He frowns. “Did you even hear me?”

A beat. Then she blinks, slow, like surfacing from underwater. “What?”

There it is again. That lag.

His eyes narrow.

He’s always hated her—too unpredictable, too emotional, too something. They clash on everything. Reports, deadlines, even coffee brands. But this? This isn’t their usual friction.

This is… off.

“Nothing,” he says flatly, but he keeps watching.

She reaches into her bag, movements clumsy in a way that doesn’t match her usual precision. Something small rattles. A bottle.

He doesn’t mean to stare. He really doesn’t.

But he does.

Orange plastic. White cap. The kind you don’t mistake.

She freezes the second she notices his gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then she snaps the bag shut too quickly. “Mind your business.”

His lip curls before he can stop it. “Oh, I intend to. Unfortunately, you’re making it difficult.”

Her jaw tightens. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Since when do you care?”

“I don’t.” The answer is immediate, sharp. Honest. “But I do care about working with someone who’s not… whatever this is.”

She laughs, but it comes out brittle. “Relax. I’m fine.”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, gaze flicking deliberately to her bag. “Right. Because ‘fine’ usually comes in a prescription bottle.”

Her expression hardens instantly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“Or,” she shoots back, voice suddenly colder, steadier despite the slight tremor in her fingers, “you could stop acting like you’re entitled to explanations.”

He studies her. Really studies her.

The jittering leg. The too-fast breathing she’s trying to hide. The way her eyes won’t quite focus on him.

Disgust coils low in his chest—not clean, not simple. It tangles with something sharper. Something almost like anger.

“Happy pills?” he says finally, the words edged with quiet contempt. “That what this is?”

Her silence answers for her.

Something in his expression shifts, hardening.

“Figures,” he mutters.

She flinches like he slapped her.

“Go ahead,” she snaps, pushing her chair back slightly. “Say it. You clearly want to.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze turning colder, more distant. “No. I don’t think I need to.”

“Because you’ve already decided?” Her voice cracks, just a little. “That I’m weak? Unstable? A liability?”

“I think,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “that if you can’t handle your job without… chemical assistance, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

The moment the words land, something flickers in her eyes.

Not anger.

Not this time.

It’s smaller than that. Quieter. And somehow worse.

“Yeah,” she says softly, almost to herself. “That’s about what I expected from you.”

She grabs her bag, stands too fast, and steadies herself on the desk for half a second before heading for the door.

He notices that.

He hates that he notices.

The door shuts behind her with a muted click.

The office falls silent.

His gaze drifts to the empty space she left, then to the faint indentation her tapping fingers made on the wood.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

Then, under his breath, almost inaudible—

“…pathetic.”

But it doesn’t sound as certain as it should.