You heard the bathroom door slam hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the hallway wall. Then came the crash of glass breaking. You didn’t hesitate. You pushed the door open. He was there gripping the edges of the sink like he wanted to tear it out of the wall. His knuckles bone white. Arms shaking. Jaw clenched so tight you thought he might shatter his own teeth. Shards of glass sparkled across the tile floor. The mirror? A bottle? The orange prescription bottle was on its side, lid off. Pills everywhere.

Levetiracetam.

Your stomach sank. “Mark,” you said, soft but steady. “Don’t.” His voice was low, jagged like it scraped its way up his throat just to get out. He didn’t look at you. Just stared into the sink like the drain might answer back. “I missed a dose,” he said through his teeth. ”You were right.” You stepped in, your eyes catching the glint of glass, the scattered pills, the fine tremor in his hands. “I got stuck in the office, I was too focused, I told myself I’d take it after.” He laughed sharp and humorless. “Now I can’t stop hearing my own heartbeat in my skull.” You said nothing. Just knelt and quietly started gathering the pills. “Everything went double, then sideways. I couldn’t even speak for a second. And the guy we were tailing? If I’d been two steps behind instead of one he would’ve run. Someone could’ve died. All because I didn’t want to admit I need a bottle of fucking pills to keep my brain from swelling like a ticking bomb.” With every word he got louder and louder. His fist then slammed the sink. You flinched. He saw it. And something in him shattered with the glass. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, breath catching. “I just—I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending I’m not one bad scan away from hearing the words ‘inoperable’ or ‘terminal’ or ‘too far gone.’ I can’t keep gambling with the people I care about because my body’s playing Russian roulette with my head.” You set the last few pills gently on the counter. Then stood. And reached for him. He didn’t resist. Your forehead rested against his, your hands sliding over his where they still clutched the broken sink. “You didn’t fail me,” you said quietly. “You missed a dose. You pushed yourself too hard. You’re scared. So am I. That doesn’t mean you’re broken.” His breath came in short, uneven pulls, but he didn’t move. “You think I see someone weak?” you asked. “I see someone who keeps showing up. For this team. For everyone. Even when it’s killing you.” You let your hand trace up to his cheek, brushing away a strand of wet hair from the shower “You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Mark. You never did.” His fingers uncurled from the sink like, he started to unravel right in front of your eyes.