The glow of the TV casts shifting shadows across the room, the soft hum of a movie filling the silence between us. I'm curled up on the couch, a half-empty plate of leftover lasagna balanced on my lap. House is next to me, legs stretched out, his own plate resting precariously on the arm of the couch. He's fully engrossed in the screen—or at least pretending to be—but I know better.
It's something I like about him, the way he never complains about the small things. Leftovers, mismatched furniture, the movie choices he pretends to hate but secretly enjoys—none of it bothers him. He's been like this throughout my recovery, showing up day after day with some sarcastic comment or half-baked excuse for why he's there. Never once did he seem inconvenienced, even when I was sure I was driving him insane.
I glance over at him, the light from the TV catching the sharp lines of his face. He's focused—or pretending to be—and I wonder, not for the first time, how much he actually cares. If he thinks about me the way I think about him. If his constant presence during these last few weeks was more than just obligation wrapped in sarcasm.
The thought lingers, but I shove it aside. House isn't the kind of person who lets people in easily. He keeps everything at arm's length, hidden behind jokes and cynicism. Still, there are moments—small, fleeting moments—where it feels like he's letting me see something real. Something raw.
"Evelyn," he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is quieter than usual, rougher, and I turn to look at him. He's not looking at me, his gaze fixed somewhere past the TV, like he's gathering his thoughts.
"Yeah?" I say, my tone light but cautious.
He exhales, setting his plate down on the coffee table with more care than I expect. "You ever think about the things you can't quit?"
I blink, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"
He leans back, his hand idly tapping his cane where it rests against the couch. "The stuff that keeps you going, even when you know it's killing you. The things you rely on so much that you don't even know who you are without them."
I hesitate, unsure where he's going with this. "I think everyone has something like that," I say carefully. "Why?"
He finally looks at me, his eyes sharper than usual but also... tired. "Vicodin."
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy and unspoken until now. He doesn't give me time to react before he keeps talking, his voice low and steady, like he's trying not to scare the words away.
"I started taking it for the pain," he says, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane. "And it worked. It still works. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being about managing the pain and started being about... everything else. About getting through the day, about keeping my head above water."
I don't interrupt, letting him continue. This isn't like him, and I know better than to push.
"It's not just the leg," he admits, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's the noise. The chaos. The constant reminder that I'm... broken. That I'll never be what I was. The pills don't fix it, but they make it quieter. Manageable. Until they don't."
He pauses, his jaw tightening as he runs a hand through his hair. "I know it's a problem. I know it's more than a problem. But the thought of stopping... it's like standing at the edge of a cliff and convincing yourself to jump. And I can't jump."
His words hit me harder than I expect, and I set my plate down next to his, leaning forward slightly. "House—"
"Don't," he interrupts, his tone sharp but not unkind. "Don't tell me it'll be okay or that I just need to try harder. I'm not looking for a pep talk."
I close my mouth, nodding instead. "Okay."
He glances at me, his expression softening just a fraction. "I'm telling you because... I don't know. Because you're here. Because you're probably the only person who'll just... listen."
I swallow hard, my chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. "I'm here," I say quietly. "And I'm listening."
For a moment, he just looks at me, the silence between us heavier than the movie still playing in the background. Then he leans back, his smirk creeping back onto his face like a shield.
I shift closer to him on the couch, hesitant at first. House doesn't seem like the kind of person who does comfort—or who lets himself be comforted. But right now, with the weight of his confession still hanging between us, it feels like the only thing I can do.
I lean over and press myself gently into his side, resting my head against his shoulder. My arm drapes loosely across his chest, and I feel him stiffen for a second, as if the idea of someone willingly being this close to him is foreign. But then he relaxes, the tension melting out of his body as he lets out a soft sigh. He doesn't say anything, but his hand shifts, resting lightly on my arm as though to say, I'll allow this.
We sit there like that for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the silence. I don't say anything—what could I possibly say that would make it better?—but I hope he feels it. That I'm here. That he doesn't have to carry all of it alone, even if he thinks he does.
After a while, I glance up at him, my cheek still pressed against his shoulder. "House?"
"Hm?" His voice is quiet, a little gruff, like he's still sifting through his own thoughts.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"For what?" he asks, his tone lighter now, but there's something cautious beneath it, like he's not used to hearing gratitude.
"For taking away my pills," I reply, my fingers lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt. "Back then, when you caught me. You didn't have to, but you did. And I hated you for it at the time, but... you probably saved me from going down the same road you're fighting."
He's silent for a moment, his hand shifting slightly on my arm. "Don't get all sentimental on me," he mutters, though there's no bite to it.
"I mean it," I insist, my voice steady. "You did what I couldn't do for myself. So... thank you."
He lets out a soft scoff, but his fingers give the faintest squeeze where they rest on my arm. "You were easier to handle than I am," he says finally, his tone wry. "Less stubborn. Marginally."
I let out a quiet laugh, settling back into his shoulder. "Still, I owe you one."
"Good," he replies, his voice taking on that familiar sarcastic edge. "I'll add it to the growing list of things you owe me. Right under 'not dying in your shower' and 'putting up with your terrible taste in movies.'"
"Don't push it," I say, but there's no heat in my voice.
He doesn't reply, but I can feel the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, steady and grounding. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like we're both exactly where we're supposed to be—flawed, complicated, and maybe, just maybe, figuring out how to be okay. Together.
I lean up slowly, my face just inches from his. I don't think about it—I don't let myself think. I tilt my head and press my lips to his, soft at first, testing the waters. For a moment, he doesn't move, like he's caught off guard. But then he responds, his lips moving against mine, slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring the moment.
The kiss deepens, his hand slipping from my arm to my waist, pulling me closer. My fingers curl into his shirt as I lose myself in the warmth of him.
It's everything I've wanted for weeks—months, maybe. The unspoken connection between us finally taking shape, tangible and real.
But then he pulls back, his breathing uneven, his hand tightening slightly on my waist as if it's taking all his effort to stop.
"Wait," he says, his voice rough. "Your surgery."
I blink up at him, confused and dazed from the kiss. "What about it?"
"You just had brain surgery," he says, his eyes scanning my face like he's looking for signs of distress. "What if this—what if I—"
"House," I groan dramatically, throwing my head back against the couch. "I'm fine."
"You're probably fine," he corrects, leaning back slightly but keeping his hand on my waist. "Big difference."
I roll my eyes, grabbing his hand and holding it in place. "You think I don't know my own limits? I'm a doctor, remember?"
"A stubborn doctor," he mutters, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "And a reckless one."
"Maybe," I admit, tilting my head to meet his gaze again. "But I know what I'm doing."
He hesitates, his hand still resting on my waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my shirt. "If you pass out mid-kiss, I'm not calling it in," he warns, though his tone is lighter now, teasing.
"Good," I say, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Because I'm not passing out."
For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes searching mine, as if he's weighing the risk. Then, with a soft sigh, he leans back in, his lips finding mine again, slower this time but no less deliberate. His hand moves to the back of my neck, careful and steady, and I can't help but smile against his lips.
House's hands slide to my waist, gripping me firmly but carefully as he adjusts me, pulling me onto his lap. I let out a small gasp at the movement, my knees pressing into the couch on either side of him. His lips are back on mine, slow and deliberate, but there's a heat building behind them that makes my head spin in the best way.
His hands glide up my back, steady and sure, before his lips leave mine and trail along my jawline, down to my neck. The sensation sends a shiver through me, and I tilt my head instinctively, giving him better access. He takes it without hesitation, his mouth pressing soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin of my neck.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and rough, like gravel and honey. His hands settle at my hips, holding me securely as his lips move to my shoulder, brushing against the fabric of my shirt. "So damn beautiful."
My breath catches, and I feel my cheeks heat, even as I let out a soft laugh. "You're just saying that because you've got me on your lap."
He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of amusement and something deeper—something that sends my heart racing. "I don't say things I don't mean, Moss."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget how to respond. But then his lips are on my shoulder again, pressing gently against my skin, and all coherent thought slips away. His hands tighten slightly at my hips, steadying me, and I feel the tension in his grip—like he's holding himself back, even now.
"You okay?" he murmurs against my skin, his lips brushing the curve of my shoulder.
I nod, my fingers curling into his shirt for support. "I'm fine."
He pulls back again, his hands moving to cup my face as he looks at me, his expression softer now. "Tell me if it's too much," he says quietly, his thumb brushing against my cheek.
"It's not," I reply, my voice steady despite the warmth flooding through me. "I promise."
His lips curve into a faint smirk, and his hands slide back down to my waist, pulling me just a little closer. "Good," he says, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing tone. "Because I'm not stopping."
And he doesn't.
-
The room feels tense, a heaviness hanging in the air as everyone sits around the table in the conference room. I'm back for my first official team meeting since my recovery, and it's obvious the mood isn't just because of me. They're dissecting the details of the previous case—a case that went sideways while I was out recovering.
"Well," House says, lounging back in his chair with his cane resting across his lap, "if we're done wallowing in guilt, let's get down to it. What went wrong?"
Foreman clears his throat, his tone defensive. "We followed the evidence. The tests pointed us toward the wrong diagnosis—"
"Which a fetus would have caught," House interrupts, gesturing lazily toward me. "But no, you had to stumble through it on your own, like toddlers learning to walk. Not her fault, though. She wasn't here to hold your hand."
Cameron's eyes flick toward me briefly, a shadow of sympathy there, but Chase is less subtle, his gaze darting between House and me as though he's debating whether or not to jump into the fray.
"It's not like she's infallible," Foreman says, his tone sharper now. "She's not some magical solution to everything."
"She's better than you, apparently," House fires back, not even bothering to look up as he twirls his cane. "You've had how many years of experience, and yet here we are, missing glaringly obvious answers? Congratulations, you've been upstaged by a newbie."
The jab stings more than I care to admit, even though I know it's not directed at me. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my gaze flicking to Foreman as his jaw tightens.
"Well, it's easy to get off scot-free when you're sleeping with the boss," Foreman snaps, his words cutting through the room like a knife.
The silence that follows is deafening. Cameron looks stunned, Chase shifts awkwardly in his chair, and I feel my stomach drop. My gaze shoots to House, waiting for his reaction, but he doesn't flinch.
Instead, a smirk creeps across his face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Jealous, Foreman?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I mean, I don't swing that way, but if it'll stop you from whining—"
"House," Cameron interrupts sharply, her tone scolding.
"What?" he asks innocently, leaning back in his chair and spinning his cane once. "I'm just saying, if Foreman wants to grab dinner and hash this out, I'll consider it. But he's paying."
I groan inwardly, resisting the urge to put my head in my hands. Foreman looks like he's biting back every word he wants to say, his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief.
House finally straightens up, tapping his cane against the floor to regain focus. "Enough foreplay," he says. "Here's the takeaway: you need to be better. All of you. From now on, absolutely everything goes through me. Want to run a test? Come to me. Want to sneeze? Better ask me first. We're not losing another patient because you thought playing doctor was a team sport."
"You're literally the head of this team," Chase points out dryly, folding his arms.
"Exactly," House says with a smirk. "So, start acting like it."
Cameron, ever the mediator, clears her throat and speaks up, her tone measured. "Maybe what we need is a team-building exercise. Something mentally stimulating to help us work better together."
I swear, if the room wasn't already tense, it's like everyone collectively stiffens. Chase looks like he's trying to suppress a laugh, Foreman stares at her in disbelief, and House... well, House looks like he's just been handed a perfect setup.
"A team-building activity?" House drawls, arching an eyebrow and leaning forward, his hands clasping over the handle of his cane. "This isn't a sorority, Cameron. We're grown-ass adults. I'm not holding hands in a trust circle or signing us up for Escape the Room. Do you want us to braid each other's hair while we're at it?"
Cameron glares at him, undeterred. "It's not about that, House. It's about finding ways to work better as a team. Building trust, communication—"
House cuts her off with a mock gasp. "Communication? Oh no, you caught me. My one true weakness. Next thing, you'll suggest we swap life stories and sing 'Kumbaya' over a campfire."
Foreman pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about needing a better job. Chase finally gives in to a snort of laughter, earning a sharp look from Cameron.
"You could at least try to take this seriously," Cameron presses, her voice firm.
"Oh, I'm taking it seriously," House replies, deadpan. "I seriously think that any activity involving 'team-building' is just an excuse for you to bring cookies and talk about feelings. But if you're so desperate, I hear there's a new laser tag place downtown. Nothing screams professional medical team like shooting each other in the dark."
I can't help but laugh softly, covering my mouth with my hand. House notices, of course, and his smirk widens as if he's won the argument by getting a reaction out of me.
"Fine," Cameron huffs, crossing her arms. "But when the next case goes south because you refuse to work on actual teamwork, don't blame me."
House shrugs, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied air. "I'll take my chances. Besides, I don't need trust falls to know you're all going to drop the ball eventually. That's what I'm here for—to clean up the mess."
The room falls quiet again, and I feel the tension creeping back in. But House just taps his cane against the floor and stands, signaling that the meeting is over.
"Now, if we're done with the Oprah segment of the day, go find me something interesting," he says, already heading toward the door. "And remember—no sneezing without permission."
As the team begins to disperse, Cameron sighs heavily and mutters, "He's impossible."
"Welcome back," Chase says to me as he passes by, his tone dripping with amusement.