The air in the bedroom was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of you humming in the kitchen, waiting for the aspirin you’d sent him to find. Frankie wasn’t a man who poked his nose where it didn’t belong, he valued a person’s privacy as much as his own. But as he rummaged through the clutter of the bedside drawer, his thumb caught on a seam that shouldn't have been there.

It was a slight misalignment of the wood, a detail his pilot’s eyes picked up instinctively. His heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He knew that trick. He’d used that trick.

When the false bottom gave way, the sight of the small, clear baggie felt like a slao on the face. The white powder shifted inside, mocking and stark against the dark wood. Frankie didn't move. He just stared at it, his breathing becoming shallow as the pieces of the last few weeks finally clicked into place: the erratic sleep, the sudden bursts of "stress-induced" energy, the way you’d started avoiding his gaze during the quiet hours.

He’d wanted to believe you were just struggling with the transition to civilian life, just like he was. He wanted to believe the bond you shared, the pact to leave the darkness behind was your shared anchor.He heard your voice behind him as the floorboards creaked.

"Frankie? It’s just Tylenol, it’s not that hard to-"

The sentence died in your throat. You froze in the doorway, your eyes darting from his rigid back to the open drawer, and finally to the baggie sitting in his calloused palm. The silence was deafening, thick with a sudden, sharp tension.

"What are you doing?" your voice came out high and defensive, the classic serrated edge of someone caught in a lie. "I asked you to get me a pill, not to strip search my furniture. Who gave you the right to go through my things, Frankie? Seriously, that's low, even for you."

Frankie didn't turn around immediately. He looked tired, older than he had ten minutes ago. When he finally faced you, his expression wasn't one of anger, but a hollow, bone deep disappointment that made your stomach turn.

"Save it," he said, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through your deflection like a knife. "Just… save the speech. I know what this is. I know the look of it, and I know the look of you when you’re on it."

"You don't know anything!" you snapped, stepping into the room, your hands shaking as you tried to reclaim the high ground. "You’re one to talk, Catfish. You spent years in the dirt. You had your nose in the same stuff, so don't you dare stand there and play the saint with me. You’re no different."

Frankie looked down at the baggie, then back at you. There was no flinch, no flash of guilt. Just a steady, heartbreaking clarity. He walked toward the bed and tossed the bag onto the mattress between you. It landed with a soft thud.

"That’s the difference," he said, his voice steady but laced with a quiet sense of grief. "When I told you I was over it, I actually meant it. When I said I was quitting for good, for us, I wasn't just saying words to get the pressure off. I meant it." He took a step back, putting space between you that felt like a canyon. "I thought we were doing this together."