The hospital room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the faint hum of machines.

House lies back against the pillows, eyes closed but restless.

You hold the patient files in your hands—dense, complex, clinical.

“Want me to read them to you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

You start anyway, voice steady, steadying the room like a calm anchor in the storm.

Your words fill the quiet, describing symptoms, test results, differential diagnoses.

Sometimes his hand twitches, his breath shifts—a sign he’s listening, even if he won’t say it.

You pause, glance over: his face is softer than usual, lines relaxed.

The unspoken tension melts away, replaced by something tender.

For once, it’s not about the puzzles or the pain.

It’s just you.

And your voice.