The call comes while you’re filing lab results.
Your phone buzzes. You answer. You go quiet.
And when you hang up, your hands shake.
You start pacing—tight, nervous loops across the diagnostics floor, fingers clenching and unclenching. You say nothing.
Neither does House.
But he’s been watching you since the first ring. Not obviously. Not kindly. He flips through a journal. Clicks his pen. Sips his coffee.
But his eyes never leave you.
"Who died?" he finally mutters—without looking up.
You stop.
“No one.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Just a little light trauma for the day then?”
You sigh. “My mom. She’s… she’s in the hospital. They don’t know what’s wrong.”
His gaze sharpens, but he still doesn’t stand. “Well, she’s got doctors, right? People with degrees and clipboards. Big fans of answers.”
You nod, swallowing hard.
Then softer, barely audible: “I should go.”
He shrugs one shoulder, He’s tense. Still. Watching you like he’s bracing for the moment you disappear.
And suddenly, you get it.
He doesn’t want you to go alone.
You take one step toward the door, then pause. “House?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you drive me?”
He scoffs. “What, so I can limp dramatically through a hospital lobby and harass your mother’s medical team?”
You wait, biting your lip.
He sighs. Pushes up from the desk. Grabs his cane.
“Fine. But I’m stealing pudding from the nurse’s lounge.”
And you know what that means.
He’s already yours.