He notices it because she never eats with them anymore.

Not at lunch, not during late shifts, not even when the vending machine spits out something edible at 2 a.m. She just… disappears. Comes back brighter. Too bright.

He hates that kind of brightness.

So when the pill bottle slips from her bag and skitters across the office floor, it’s almost satisfying.

Almost.

He picks it up before she can.

Her hand freezes mid-air. “Give it back.”

He doesn’t. He turns it instead, reading the label, jaw tightening. “Figures.”

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not starting,” he says flatly. “I’m just confirming what I already thought. You’re faking it.”

Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to—”

“Happy pills?” he cuts in, voice low with something sharp and unpleasant. “That’s your solution? Just chemically pretend everything’s fine?”

Her shoulders stiffen, but her voice doesn’t break. “It’s called functioning. You should try it.”

That earns a humorless huff. “I function just fine without numbing myself.”

“Congratulations,” she snaps. “Do you want a medal or—”

“You think I don’t see it?” he interrupts, stepping closer. “The way you come back smiling like nothing touches you? It’s disgusting.”

The word hangs there.

For a second, she looks like he slapped her.

Good, he thinks. Let it sting.

But then she laughs—short, hollow. “Yeah. God forbid I don’t fall apart where you can see it.”

Something about that lands wrong.

He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, quieter now, “you only respect pain when it’s loud.”

“I don’t respect—”

“Exactly.”

Silence stretches between them, tight and uncomfortable.

He looks at the bottle again. Small. Ordinary. Pathetic, really.

And yet—

“You’re overdoing it,” he mutters.

Her brows knit. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen people on this stuff,” he says, tone rougher now, less certain. “They don’t look like… that.” He gestures vaguely at her—too alert, too sharp around the edges. “You’re burning through it.”

Her lips part, but no words come out.

“Dosage?” he presses.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you pass out at your desk next week and I have to cover for you,” he shoots back. “So?”

She hesitates. That’s all the answer he needs.

“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath.

“Then stop talking to me.”

Instead, he reaches past her, grabs his coat, and shrugs it on. “Come on.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Pharmacy,” he says shortly. “Or doctor. I don’t care which. You’re getting this checked.”

She stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “You just called me disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he says, not looking at her. “And I stand by it.”

“Then why would you—”

“Because,” he cuts in, finally meeting her eyes, irritation simmering over something harder to name, “if you’re going to rely on this crap, at least do it right.”

Her expression falters—confusion cracking through the defensive edge.

He exhales sharply. “I’m not watching you wreck yourself just because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quieter, almost grudging—“You don’t have to.”

He holds the door open, not patient, not kind—just… there.

Waiting.

And after a moment, against her better judgment, she follows.