He watches from across the dim aisle as she returns from wherever she keeps disappearing to—coat damp, hair clinging faintly to her cheek, that same too-bright expression stitched onto her face like it belongs to someone else.

He hates that look.

The moment cracks when something slips from her bag.

A small plastic bottle skids across the polished floor, tapping softly against his shoe.

Silence.

He bends, picks it up before she can reach it. The label catches in the harsh light.

His mouth twists. “Of course.”

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

He turns it slowly between his fingers, unimpressed. “This is how you do it? Fake being okay?”

His voice drops, colder now. “It’s disgusting.”

The word lands heavy, swallowed slightly by the hum of the lights.

For a second, she doesn’t move. Then her chin lifts, fragile defiance. “You’d prefer I break down at my desk? Make it entertaining for you?”

“I’d prefer you not lie about it.”

“I’m not lying,” she snaps. “I’m coping.”

“With this?” He flicks the bottle lightly. “You’re not coping. You’re hiding.”