You’re walking out of the Internal Medicine wing, flipping through a patient chart when you catch a flash of movement in your peripheral vision — cane, scowl, ridiculous blue eyes. House.

“Really? You’re still doing rounds?” he asks flatly, gesturing to the folder like it’s a crime against medical ethics.

You raise a brow. “Yes, because I still have a job.”

“You’re 12 weeks pregnant, not invincible.”

You sigh, already half-smiling despite yourself. “It’s my job. Also, I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

He walks with you down the hallway, cane tapping beside your steps. It’s not unusual to see him stalking someone, but you can feel the weight of his eyes — your colleagues notice the way he hovers closer than normal. Not touching, but there. One nurse even gives you a weird look. You’re used to it.

“I ran into Wilson earlier,” House says after a pause, voice too casual. “He says you should sit down more. You should. He’s a doctor, you know.”

You stop walking, and turn to him. “Are you quoting Wilson at me?”

“No,” he says immediately. Then adds, “But he’s right. Your ankles looked… puffy.”

You glance down at your ankles, completely normal. “Are you diagnosing my ankles now?”

He shrugs, but there’s something a little too watchful behind his eyes. He leans in slightly, voice dipping lower. “I hate hospitals,” he mutters. “Full of infections. And interns. And now you’re walking around here like you’re not carrying something ridiculously important in your abdomen.”

You blink. “Are you talking about the baby?”

“I’m talking about you. And the parasite.” He smirks, but there’s tension in his jaw.

You press your hand lightly to your stomach, just where the small curve is beginning to show. “House,” you say softly because sarcasm or not — he’s worried. You can feel it in the way he’s watching your every move, even now, like he’s bracing for the world to crack open beneath your feet.

He scoffs, steps back, and holds out a takeaway coffee cup like he’s just remembered he’s House. “Iced decaf Americano. Disgusting. But it’s on the approved list.”

You take it. “You walked across the hospital to bring me decaf?”

“No,” he says. “Wilson did. I just wanted the excuse to tell you you’re walking weird.”

And with that, he turns, limp-and-cane strutting back toward Diagnostics — but not before looking back once, just to make sure you’re still standing.

You are. And so is he. Grumbling, stalking, caring way too much. Even if he’ll never admit it.