The quiet hum of the hospital office is shattered by a sudden crash—a glass tumbles off House’s cluttered desk, smashing against the tile floor. He stands frozen a moment, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides.

You kneel quickly, pulling paper towels from the dispenser, fingers deft and practiced as you start gathering the shards. The tension in the room is thick, but you don’t rush.

House leans against the desk, shoulders slumped, his usually sharp gaze dulled by frustration. His voice, when he finally speaks, cracks just a little—barely audible.

“Stop.”

You pause, looking up at him. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice lower now, almost ashamed. “Don’t want you seeing me like this.”

You stand and move closer, brushing the stray hair from his forehead with gentle certainty. “You don’t have to hide. Not with me.”

For a long moment, House doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch between you.

Then, just as quietly, he admits, “Good. Because I’m a mess.”