He tells himself he’s done thinking about it.
He isn’t.
The office feels wrong without her noise. No tapping, no off-key humming, no muttered complaints under her breath. Just the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the occasional clack of keys that aren’t hers.
It’s quieter.
He hates it.
An hour passes. Then another.
She doesn’t come back.
By the time he finally pushes his chair back, the decision feels less like a choice and more like an irritation he can’t ignore.
He finds her in the stairwell.
Of course he does.
The door creaks open, and there she is—sitting halfway down the steps, elbows on her knees, head bowed. The harsh overhead light makes everything look sharper, more unforgiving.
Especially her.
She looks smaller like this. Folded in on herself. Nothing like the woman who usually meets him glare for glare.
For a second, he just watches.
Then, “So this is where you disappeared to.”
She stiffens but doesn’t look up. “Go away.”
“Tempting.”
He doesn’t leave.
A bitter huff escapes her. “Don’t you have spreadsheets to bully or something?”
“Don’t you have work you’re currently avoiding?”
That earns him a weak, humorless laugh. “Guess we’re both failing, then.”
Silence settles, heavy and awkward.
Up close, it’s worse. The signs he noticed earlier haven’t disappeared—they’ve shifted. Her hands are still restless, but now they tremble. Her breathing is uneven, like she can’t quite find a rhythm.
Withdrawal? Comedown? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
“…How long?” he asks anyway.
She finally looks up, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”
“How long have you been taking them?”
Her expression shutters. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out if this is a recent problem or if you’ve always been like this.”
That should earn him a sharp comeback. An insult. Something.
Instead, she just stares at him, eyes tired. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Her gaze drops again, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve. For a moment, he thinks she won’t answer.
Then, quietly, “A while.”
He exhales, slow, controlled. “And no one noticed?”
“My friends did.” A pause. “They just… didn’t want to push it.”
Of course they didn’t. People rarely do.
“And you thought work was the perfect place to fall apart?” he presses.
“I’m not falling apart,” she snaps, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m functioning, aren’t I?”
He looks at her—really looks.
At the shaky hands. The unfocused eyes. The way she’s gripping herself like she might come undone if she lets go.
“Barely.”
The word lands heavier than he expects.
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“I get to judge anything that affects my work.”
“Oh, please.” She laughs again, harsher this time. “God forbid your perfect little world gets disrupted because I—what? Took something to feel normal for once?”
“Normal?” His voice drops, colder now. “This is your version of normal?”
“It’s better than—” She cuts herself off, biting down hard on whatever was coming next.
He steps closer before he can stop himself. “Better than what?”
“Nothing.” Too fast...
He crouches slightly, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Finish it.”
For a second, she looks like she might refuse.
Then something cracks.
“Better than feeling like I’m drowning all the time,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
The words hang between them.
Ugly. Honest.
He straightens slowly, something twisting in his chest—annoyance, maybe. Or something worse.
“Then you picked a terrible solution.”
She lets out a shaky breath, a faint, broken smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
“I’m right.”
“Maybe.” Her shoulders slump. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
Silence again.
He should walk away. Leave her here, deal with it herself. That’s what she deserves. That’s what he’s always done.
Instead—
“…Did you take one today?” he asks.
She hesitates. Then nods.
“And yesterday?”
Another nod.
He clicks his tongue, irritation flaring again, sharp and defensive. “Unbelievable.”
“Then leave,” she mutters.