You weren’t snooping — not exactly. The drawer was already slightly open. He wasn’t in the office. Curiosity just… pulled your hand.

A file folder. A half-eaten protein bar. A pen cap. And then — A prescription bottle, label half-scratched off, buried beneath everything else.

Vicodin.

Your fingers froze around it.

Of course you knew. Everyone knew. But knowing and holding it were two very different things. It was heavier than you expected — like it carried more than pills. Like it carried years.

“Looking for a mint?” His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel, sharp and dry.

You turned, bottle still in hand. House leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, cane hanging loosely from one wrist. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look surprised. Just… tired.

Caught, but not ashamed.

“I wasn’t—” you began, but he held up a hand.

“Save it. Moral lectures give me hives.” His limp was a little worse today, you noticed. A subtle hitch in his posture.

You stared at him. He smiled — not his usual smirk. Not sarcastic. Not cruel. Soft. Almost shy.

“You think less of me now?” he asked, head tilted, eyes on yours.

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

Another pause.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because you’re the only one whose opinion makes the damn stuff harder to take.”

But instead, you sit back in the chair, turn the bottle once in your hand, and open it. The rattle of pills breaks the silence.

You pull one out.

Then stretch your arm toward him.

He blinks.

“I just don’t want you to do it alone tonight.”

He doesn't take it at first.

He just stares at your hand — the pill resting in your palm like a quiet understanding. His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker to yours. And then, with the same reluctance he uses when he actually lets someone help him, he steps forward and takes it from you.

His fingers brush yours.

His gaze lingers too long.

And then, softly — almost without thinking — he murmurs, “...This is worse than love. It’s trust.”

You don’t speak.

You just stay.