They brought him in under a false name. House noticed right away—he’s a terrible liar, and even worse at hiding pain.

You hadn’t said anything when you saw the name on the chart. Just… stared. Quiet. Paler. The clipboard shook in your hand just slightly, like your body knew something your mind was trying to bury.

House watched it all. Watched the way you stood still outside the diagnostics room for a second too long. Watched how your voice was steady, but your eyes flicked away every time your ex-husband spoke. Watched how he kept looking at you like a man seeing sunlight after years of darkness.

He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t joke. He didn’t push.

Not until hours later, after the consult. After your ex was finally stabilized, exhausted in a hospital bed. You stood outside the glass, arms crossed over your chest, lips pursed to keep from trembling.

House came up behind you, quiet. His voice low.

“Didn’t know ghosts could still look at you like that.” You stiffen. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” His voice is calm, too calm. “Because if I ever looked at someone the way he looked at you in there—I wouldn’t care if I was dying or already dead. I wouldn’t stop.” You don’t respond. Not immediately.

He turns slightly, eyes scanning your profile.

“And you? You still looking at him like he never really left.” Silence.