It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that feels permanent.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, the hard tiles beneath you not nearly as cold as they should be. The fever has made sure of that. You’re drained. Not just from the pain, but from the silence. The way no one’s said it—but everyone knows it.

You’re dying.

There’s no cure. They tried. God, House tried. You watched him fight like hell through sarcasm and chaos, searching every lab, barking at every specialist. But now he sits on the other side of the glass. His back against the corridor wall, his eyes locked on you.

And tonight—like some unspoken agreement—you both stop pretending.

You meet his eyes. You smile.

And House, for the first time in hours, maybe days… smiles back. It’s small. Crooked. Shattered. But it’s real.

Like you’re both saying: This is it, isn’t it? Like he’s saying: I see you. I’m here. I won’t move.

You force a tiny smile. It trembles. Your throat tightens.

“I thought you’d left,” you say, voice hoarse through the speaker.

His jaw twitches. “I tried.”

You both stare at each other.

The monitors beep on. The storm rattles the windows in the distance. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just sits there—breaking in the quiet.