The hospital was too quiet.

The laughter Kutner brought into every hallway, every break room, every impossible case—was gone. Just… gone. You didn’t believe it when you heard. Not even when they said the words.

You had been best friends since your first day. Shared coffee, tears, every dark shift. He was your person. The safe one. And now, there was just this ache—a silence so loud it crushed your ribs.

You hadn’t spoken much that day. Not since Wilson told you, voice cracking. Not since you stood in the hallway outside House’s office and couldn’t move.

You don’t know how you ended up here—on House’s worn couch, wrapped in one of his blankets, your eyes swollen from crying.

“I don’t get it,” you whisper, finally. “He was just laughing with me. We made dinner plans. He called me yesterday.”

House sits in the chair across from you, leg stretched out, cane forgotten. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap.

“He laughed with me too,” he says, voice low. “He was a genius at covering pain. Better than most.”

You nod, pressing the sleeve of your sweatshirt to your face. “Did I miss it?”

House leans forward slightly. “If you did, then I did too. And Kutner was good at hiding from both of us.”

You glance up, and it hits you—how still he is. How he’s watching you, not with judgment or detachment, but with that rare, heavy kind of presence he only gives when it matters.

He stands without a word, sits next to you slowly. His arm doesn’t go around you—not yet—but his shoulder presses close.

“You’re staying here tonight.” he murmurs.

You shake your head, but your body’s already leaning into him.

“Why are you being nice?” you ask, voice breaking.

He swallows. You feel it in the shift of his shoulder. “Because Kutner would’ve hated to see you like this.”

Then—so soft you almost miss it—he adds, “And because you matter. To me.”

That’s when you cry. And this time, House doesn’t freeze. He lets you fall into his chest, lets your fists curl into his shirt, lets the tears soak him without complaint.