The day starts like every other—coffee in hand, files in tow, sarcasm in the air. You’re sitting beside him in diagnostics, nodding along as he pokes at Foreman, rolls his eyes at Taub, makes some inappropriate quip about the patient’s dog fetish.

But not a word. Not a single word.

You don’t need a parade. You didn’t even tell the others. But House knew. You told him last week. He made a snide comment about astrology and aging. He said, “Congratulations on being one year closer to bone loss and irrelevance.”

But now? Nothing.

And by the time the sun dips, by the time the case closes and the whiteboard’s wiped clean, it sinks in.

He forgot. You don’t say anything. You just pack your things, give him a tight smile, and head toward the elevators.

You’re three steps out when—

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the hallway.

You stop. But you don’t turn. “If this is about the files—”

“It’s not.” He limps closer. Slower than usual. “You okay?”

“You tell me.”

He studies you. No sarcasm. Just something quiet. Still. “What did I do?”

You give him a tired smile. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

His brow furrows. “Oh, for God’s—”

“Forget it,” you snap, a little too sharp. “You forgot. That’s it. It’s just a date, right?”

He goes silent. You can see him ransacking his memory like a file cabinet. Then— “Your birthday.”