You hadn’t spoken much since that fight. Not beyond what was necessary. No late-night bickering. No coffee. No shared silence in his office. Nothing.

He told you he didn’t want this. A baby. That it was “the worst goddamn idea either of you ever entertained,” and probably something you were subconsciously sabotaging your careers with. That stung worse than you'd expected. You hadn’t even had the chance to be scared before he decided for you that this was a problem.

So when Cuddy quietly shuffled your department assignment “temporarily” to NICU — House didn’t say anything. Not to your face, at least.

He figured you needed the reminder. Or maybe you needed space. He didn't know. He hated not knowing.

And yet, here he was. Standing outside the NICU, watching you through the glass like a stranger. You stood in scrubs, shoulders squared, eyes soft as you held a clipboard and rocked a tiny incubator crib with your foot. You didn’t look overwhelmed. You looked... numb.

He shifted on his cane, throat dry. This had been easier when it was hypothetical. Now he watched you with babies, and the thought of you ever not smiling again made him feel like a bastard.

You caught him watching once. Eyes met. You said nothing. Just blinked and turned back to your chart.

He said something under his breath. Regret? Maybe. But still no words.

And still, no idea if there was a way back from this distance.