Roy’s been doing better lately—cleaner, sharper, more like the Roy you used to know. It’s a relief, but it’s also a reminder of how much you’ve been hiding.

You’ve always been there for him, through the worst of it. The late-night calls, the shaky apologies, the moments when he felt like he was drowning and you were one of the things keeping him afloat. You’ve been his anchor and you’ve never regretted it. Not once. But now, as you sit here beside him, the weight of your own secret feels like a stone in your chest, growing heavier with every passing moment.

It’s not until the early hours of the morning, when the city is at its quietest and the sky is just beginning to lighten, that it all comes crashing down. You’re back at the safehouse, the two of you debriefing after a long night, when Roy finds it. The small, unassuming bottle tucked away in your bag. The one you thought you’d hidden well enough. The one that holds your secret.

He picks it up, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, the room is silent. Then he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mix of hurt and understanding, and you feel your heart shatter.

“How long?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you sink onto the couch, hands trembling as you bury your face in them.

He sits beside, his presence warm and solid, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he reaches out, his hand resting on your back, and you feel his empathy.