The hospital corridor was nearly empty, just the quiet squeak of your shoes echoing under the fluorescent lights. You were on your way back from Radiology, files in hand, when you saw him—Gregory House, leaning against the wall outside Diagnostics like he wasn’t waiting for you at all.

Except he was.

“Interesting,” he said as you approached, that familiar sharp tilt in his voice. “So now we’re hiding symptoms from each other?”

You blinked, confused for a moment—until you remembered the subtle shake in your hands earlier, the way you held your ribs when you thought no one was looking. Of course he noticed.

“You didn’t tell me you were sick,” he continued, his eyes scanning your face like a lie detector set to high. “Are we playing secrets now? Because I’m really good at those.”

You opened your mouth to deflect, to downplay—but something in his expression made the words stall. His gaze wasn’t mocking. Not entirely. There was something else there. Something bordering on... hurt.

“I’m fine,” you said, quietly.

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Sure. You’re glowing with health. Everyone has fever when they’re healthy.”

You looked away. He stepped closer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The question was low, not angry—not yet—but loaded. Like he was already building a wall to protect himself from the answer.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you finally confessed, meeting his eyes.

“And yet here I am,” he said, voice dry but strained, “worrying anyway. Funny how that works.”