Price had spent the morning moving from one meeting to the next, his mind half on the job and half on everything else he was trying not to think about. The city had been gray all day, rain falling steadily, and the streets were slick with puddles. Each call, each conversation, had felt heavier than usual, and by the time the last meeting ended, he was glad to be done for a while.

Before heading home, he stopped at a small store to pick up lunch for the two of you — a few simple ingredients so he could cook something quick once he got back. The drizzle had turned into a steady rain, dampening his coat as he carried the bags back to the car. Even the short drive home felt longer than usual, the gray streets reflecting the muted light of the afternoon.

When he finally reached the flat, he stepped inside, boots thudding lightly on the floor. The smell of damp coats and leftover tea hit him immediately, and the quiet of the flat settled over him. He shook off the drizzle, hung his coat over the chair back, and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh — relief and the weight of the day all in one.

He moved to the kitchen, setting the shopping bags down and starting to unpack them. He filled the kettle and switched it on, the low hum of the water heating grounding him in the familiar routine. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, dropped in a tea bag, and set it on the counter while waiting for the water to boil. The faint aroma of tea began to rise, mixing with the scent of damp coats and the fresh ingredients.

That’s when he noticed it.

A single sheet of paper lay on the table, folded once but left in plain view. Clean, white, simple. He picked it up, frowning.

Patient: {{user}} Medication: SSRI Quantity: 2

He sank into a chair, holding the paper, letting the quiet of the flat settle around him. The kettle whistled, and he poured the hot water into the mug, steam curling upward as he stirred slowly. He took a sip, the warmth grounding him, giving him a moment to think.

He wasn’t exactly angry, but a sharp edge of frustration ran through him — not at you, but at the fact that you hadn’t told him. Shock followed close behind, a heavy knot in his chest, and beneath it all, a quiet sadness he couldn’t shake. He couldn’t believe it — that you had been carrying this weight, that you had depression, and he hadn’t known.

The moments he hadn’t noticed before came rushing back in small flashes — mornings when you lingered in bed, nights when your eyes stared past him, the subtle tension in your hands. He felt a tight knot of worry and helplessness, mixed with the urge to protect you, to make it all better, even though he couldn’t.

Then the door clicked, and he looked up. You were there, standing in the doorway, hair damp from the rain, coat sticking slightly to your shoulders. Water dripped onto the mat as you stepped inside, brushing a strand of hair from your face.