The room is dim—only one lamp lit in the corner of House’s apartment, casting soft amber shadows on the walls. The silence between you crackles with everything left unsaid.

You’re standing near the door, jacket in hand, your expression caught somewhere between heartbreak and fury. You had shown up hoping for honesty. Maybe a scrap of vulnerability. What you got instead was another one of his signature defense mechanisms—a joke that cut just a little too deep.

“Well,” House mutters from the couch, not even bothering to look at you as he tips back his glass of whiskey, “on the bright side, at least you’ll have a great sob story for your next emotionally unavailable screw-up. ‘Once dated a crippled narcissist with a pill problem.’ Real Hallmark stuff.”

The words hit like a slap—but it's not what he says that breaks you. It's what flickers in his eyes when he finally meets your gaze. For one beat—just one—you see it.

Panic. Regret. A quiet, desperate don’t go.

But then it’s gone. Replaced by his trademark sneer, like the mask slid right back into place. He leans into the cruelty like armor, but something in his posture betrays him—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, like he’s bracing for impact.

“Door’s that way,” he says, voice low. “Don’t let the limp slow you down.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

Because for all his words, his eyes are still begging you to stay.