It was stupid, really. Just a meeting. Just House leaning back in his chair, tossing out sarcasm like candy, the usual battlefield of diagnostics and tension.

And then she walked in. Cuddy. Confident. Tired. In control. Her arms crossed as she reminded House for the third time to submit his paperwork. You didn’t even notice you were watching him—until you really saw the way he looked at her.

Not lust. Not bitterness. Just something quiet. Familiar. Like she was a memory he couldn’t quite shake. Like she still owned the room he built all his walls in.

You swallowed, smiling at your notes like nothing twisted in your chest. Like he hadn’t kissed you with hands that trembled once. Like he didn’t say things to you late at night that meant too much.

Later, when it was just you two, his leg outstretched on the coffee table in his office, you asked quietly—too quietly— “She still has your heart, doesn’t she?”

His eyes flicked up, sharp, but not angry. Just… tired. Caught. “I don’t have a heart,” he said, but his voice lacked venom. “Thought you knew that.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t comfort you. Didn’t lie.

So you sat there, breathing through the ache, wondering if being wanted was ever going to be enough—when you’d never be the woman who haunted him.