House had been watching you for a few days now. Ever since you’d saved the baby and lost the mother, he noticed something in the way you moved around the NICU. You weren’t exactly hovering—no, you were worse. You were lingering. Every time he passed by, you were there, checking on that baby, looking at the tiny, fragile life like it held some kind of redemption for the loss you’d experienced.

He didn’t need to be a genius to notice it.

Today, as you moved toward the crib, House’s sharp gaze caught the motion once again. He didn’t even need to limp over to you. He simply stood still, arms crossed, watching you approach for what felt like the millionth time.

“Third time within the last hour,” he said, his voice cool, with a touch of that usual biting sarcasm. “You know it isn’t necessary.”

Before you could protest or offer any excuse, he cut you off with the same directness he used on all his patients, colleagues, and anyone who stepped into his orbit.

“You’re not going to bring her back,” he added, his words harsh but not unkind. “And the baby’s fine. Stop obsessing.”

He wasn’t looking for a fight. He was simply stating the truth, as always. But there was an underlying question in his tone. What was it you were trying to prove? Or maybe, what were you trying to avoid? He had a feeling there was more beneath the surface of your actions, something you weren’t saying aloud. Something that needed to be said, but maybe not to him.

Yet.