Something slips from her bag—a small pill bottle that clatters softly across the floor.

He picks it up before she can reach it. The label catches in the light, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

“Give it back,” she whispers, tense.

He doesn’t hand it over. “Happy pills,” he murmurs, voice low. “I figured.”

Her shoulders stiffen. “You don’t… you don’t understand.”

“I don’t have to,” he says, but there’s less anger now, a strange weight behind his words. “I just… I don’t want to see you hide behind them.”

Her lips part, but no words come.

“You’re burning through it,” he continues softly, almost reluctantly. “It won’t last forever like this.”

She swallows, eyes darting away.

He sets the bottle gently on his desk. Not scolding. Not judgmental. Just… there. Waiting.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, surprising even himself with the softness in his tone. “Let me help. Just… properly.”

She blinks, caught off guard. Her defenses flicker, her tough façade cracking ever so slightly.

“You’d… do that?” Her voice is small, tentative.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint, almost teasing smile. “Don’t flatter me. But someone has to keep you from wrecking yourself.”

She nods, slow and careful, and finally steps closer.

He opens the door, holding it for her. “Come on. Let’s fix this.”

No lectures. No judgment. Just… him, waiting for her to let him in.

And she does.