You don’t notice it at first—the way Simon’s eyes are darker than usual, how his jaw is working under the mask of quiet he wears when he’s holding something back. You only realize when he drops the small bag onto the table between you, the sound of it hitting the wood far louder than it should be.

Your stomach twists. You know what it is before you even look.

“Care to explain?” His voice is low, rough. Not his usual gruff patience, not the steady calm that has carried you through nights when the urge clawed at your throat. This is different. This is betrayal, heavy and sharp in every syllable.

You can’t meet his eyes. You can’t bear the sight of the man who swore he believed in you, who praised every day you stayed clean, now staring at you like he doesn’t recognize who you are.

“I wasn’t—” The words falter. You don’t even know what excuse you were reaching for.

“Don’t,” he cuts in, hard and cold. He leans forward, hands braced against the table. “Don’t tell me you weren’t going to use. Don’t tell me you just keep it around. I’ve heard it all before.”

The bag sits there, an accusation in plastic, and you feel stripped bare. Your chest aches. You want to tell him it was just a safety net, a secret reassurance, a piece of the old you that you couldn’t quite let go. But those words would sound like lies, and the look in his eyes says he doesn’t want them.

“You promised me,” Simon says, quieter now, but not softer. His voice breaks around the edges, anger splintering into something that hurts worse than shouting. “You swore to me you were done with this. And I believed you. God help me, I believed you.”