But the words kept coming—sharp, cruel, heavy with months of tension and every unsaid thing between you. House was relentless. He always was. But today, something snapped in both of you.

“You think you’re smarter than everyone just because you’re broken,” you snapped, breath catching.

He narrowed his eyes, stepping in too close. “You think you’re better because you pretend you care.”

“Maybe I do care!” you shouted. “At least I’m not hiding behind a cane and a Vicodin bottle!”

He didn’t even hesitate. His hand came up and pushed your shoulder—sharp and sudden, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to shock you.

Your body moved before your brain.

You shoved him back.

And in that breathless second, you forgot.

About the cane. About the imbalance.

His leg buckled.

His eyes widened.

And then—crash.

He hit the floor hard, his back against the cold tile, the cane clattering uselessly beside him.

Time froze.

You stood there, your chest heaving, staring down at him as guilt ripped through you like a blade.

“I didn’t mean—” you started.

You fell to your knees beside him, hands trembling, eyes wide with regret. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve had worse,” But then he winced, and the words died in your throat.. “I'm okay,” he said quietly. “I'm okay.”

And then, the worst part: his eyes shifted away from you, his gaze unfocused, almost like he was ashamed of what had just happened. Like you were the last person he wanted to look at right now.