Stefan pushed the door open without knocking. He'd learned long ago that when a Steve walked away from the dinner table mid-meal, it meant something bad.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, a single bedside lamp casting soft, shaky shadows against the walls. And there was Steve, hunched over like a man carrying the weight of his entire life on his shoulders, fumbling with a small amber bottle in his trembling hands.
The bottle slipped from his fingers, pills scattering like tiny white marbles across the hardwood floor.
"Shit," Steve muttered, dropping to his knees, scrambling to gather them up.
But when his eyes met Stefan's, he froze and for a second, Steve looked like a boy again. Scared. Exposed.
Without a word, Steve shoved the bottle under the bed. Two pills remained clutched in his palm, and without hesitation, he tossed them back, swallowing them dry. His throat worked around the pills like they were stones.
