It’s quiet inside House’s apartment, the kind of stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath.

He told you not to touch anything—classic House—but he also didn’t close the notebook on the piano. It’s old, cracked along the spine. Your eyes fall on the pages without meaning to.

Your name is there.

Once. Then again. And again.

You skim through the entries—no dates, just scattered thoughts.

“She argued with me again. She was right.” “I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, but I do.” “She smiled like she didn’t know what it does to me.”

You freeze. You feel like you’ve just peeled back his skin and found the part of him no one ever gets to see. Not even Wilson.

Then:

“If I were less me, I’d tell her.”

The door opens. You don’t even hear him enter until it clicks behind him. You spin around, guilt already burning your throat.

He sees the notebook. Then your face. His expression shuts down like a fuse blown cold. He doesn’t say anything for a long second.

And then, low and rough:

“Guess that’s one mystery solved, huh?”