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.”
“You don’t know anything,” she says, quieter now.
He studies her for a long second—the tension in her shoulders, the way the brightness doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Then he exhales, sharp and annoyed, like he’s arguing with himself more than her.
“You’re taking too much.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I’ve seen it before,” he mutters. “You’re off. Too wired. It crashes hard after that.”
“That’s none of your—”
“It is when you drop in the middle of a shift,” he cuts in. “And I have to deal with it.”
A beat.
Her fingers curl slowly at her sides. “So what, you’re suddenly concerned?”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He grabs his coat from the back of his chair, the fabric rustling loud in the quiet office.
“Come on.”
She doesn’t move. “Where?”
“Somewhere that can fix this mess properly,” he says, nodding at the bottle still in his hand. “Doctor. Pharmacy. I don’t care.”
She lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You just called me disgusting.”
“Yeah.” He steps past her, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “And I meant it.”
The rainlight flickers across his face, hard edges softened for just a second.
“But I’m not watching you destroy yourself over it.”
The words hang there—rough, unpolished, real.
He pushes the door open, cold air spilling in from the corridor.
Doesn’t look back again.
But he waits.