It had been half a year since the custody ruling. On paper, it was shared. In practice, it went to whoever could manage you on the hard days.

Today, that meant him.

Your mom had stuffed your overnight bag, organized your meds, even tucked the heart monitor and the protocol sheet right on top. She still handled all of that, like muscle memory neither of you could shake. House hadn’t bothered with conversation when you got in his car.

Just a rough, “Seatbelt,” and a worn-out glance in your direction.

Now you were on the living room floor, fingers pressed into the carpet as the room wavered. Your heartbeat felt like it had misfired and was scrambling to catch the rhythm again.

House crouched beside you, breathing shallow. He didn’t reach out—just stared, sharp and unwavering, like taking his eyes off you might make you fade out. His voice came level, almost clinical.

“Rate’s back down. Still messy… but not dangerous.”

You blinked slowly, trying to sync yourself to the world again. The blanket you’d been wrapped in slipped down your arm.

“Mom used to keep track of them,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened, a quick, small shift. A beat of silence.

Then: “Yeah. Well. She’s not here right now.” You drew back a little. He caught it. He didn’t apologize.

He pushed himself upright, limped to the kitchen, and cracked open his Vicodin like it was routine