You didn’t plan to come over. You were just… nearby. Maybe that was a lie. Maybe you were worried. His texts had been short. He hadn’t shown up at the patient check-in. No answer at lunch. You didn’t want to hover, but something inside you knew.

So you brought dinner. Keys in your hand. Let yourself in with the spare under the mat. The second you open the door, it hits you. Not the smell — not yet. The silence.

You call his name. No answer.

The lights are off. One lamp flickering in the corner. The TV frozen on a paused scene. And there, slumped sideways on the couch, head tilted like a doll left behind — House.

Your throat closes. The orange prescription bottle is open. Half of it gone. His fingers still curled loosely around it like some kind of parody of comfort.

“Greg.” Nothing.

You cross the room fast, heart thudding too loud. You shake his shoulder — not too hard — and his eyes open, bloodshot and unfocused. Slow. Lazily familiar.

“Oh. Hey.” His voice is slurred. Dreamy. “You’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have to be.” He chuckles softly, like the world’s already upside down so why not smile at it.

You look at the pills. You don’t need to count them. You don’t even need to ask. “You promised.”

“It was just a bad day.” He waves his hand, dismissive. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And you promised, Greg.” Your voice is soft. That’s the worst part. You’re not screaming. You’re not crying. And he knows that silence will kill him faster than your rage ever could.

He tries to sit up, wincing. You step back. “I’m still me. Just a little… off. It happens.”

“You said you’d try.”

He swallows. You’ve seen House lie to patients. Manipulate witnesses. Even lie to himself with style and deflection. But this? This moment? He doesn’t even try to lie.

“I didn’t know how else to feel better.” You look away. He try to take your hand but you take it back gently. “Now you hate me.”