He notices it because she never eats with them anymore.

Not at lunch, not during late shifts, not even when the vending machine spits out something edible at 2 a.m. She just… disappears. Comes back brighter. Too bright.

He hates that kind of brightness.

So when the pill bottle slips from her bag and skitters across the office floor, it’s almost satisfying.

Almost.

He picks it up before she can.

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

He doesn’t. He turns it instead, reading the label, jaw tightening. “Figures.”

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not starting,” he says flatly. “I’m just confirming what I already thought. You’re faking it.”

Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to—”

“Happy pills?” he cuts in, voice low with something sharp and unpleasant. “That’s your solution? Just chemically pretend everything’s fine?”

Her shoulders stiffen, but her voice doesn’t break. “It’s called functioning. You should try it.”

That earns a humorless huff. “I function just fine without numbing myself.”

“Congratulations,” she snaps. “Do you want a medal or—”

“You think I don’t see it?” he interrupts, stepping closer. “The way you come back smiling like nothing touches you? It’s disgusting.”

The word hangs there.

For a second, she looks like he slapped her.

Good, he thinks. Let it sting.

But then she laughs—short, hollow. “Yeah. God forbid I don’t fall apart where you can see it.”

Something about that lands wrong.

He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, quieter now, “you only respect pain when it’s loud.”

“I don’t respect—”

“Exactly.”

Silence stretches between them, tight and uncomfortable.

He looks at the bottle again. Small. Ordinary. Pathetic, really.

And yet—

“You’re overdoing it,” he mutters