Cure- House, MD

chapter 8: dramatic

I've had enough of his silence.

It's been three days of barely-there glances and not a single word. Three days of him skimming past me in the hallway like we're strangers, as if that night on the patio was just a dream. And maybe it was. Maybe I imagined the way his voice softened, the way his hand lingered just a little longer than it should have. Or maybe he's just pretending it didn't happen because that's easier for him.

But I can't pretend. I've tried. I've told myself I'm fine, that it doesn't matter, that I don't need him to care. I don't need him to see me. But it's a lie, and I'm done lying to myself.

So I square my shoulders, take a breath, and head down the hallway, each step heavy with something between dread and determination. The closer I get to his office, the harder my heart pounds. I feel like I'm walking a tightrope, one wrong move away from slipping into something I can't pull myself out of. But there's no going back. Not now. Not when I'm already here.

I reach his door and hesitate for just a second before pushing it open. He's there, sitting at his desk, flipping through a chart like he hasn't got a care in the world. Like he hasn't been ignoring me, avoiding me, pulling away without a second thought.

The door clicks shut behind me, and he doesn't even look up. Typical.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to speak. "Are you going to ignore me forever, or are we going to talk about this?"

He glances up, finally, his gaze unreadable, his face as closed off as a locked door. "Talk about what?" His voice is casual, disinterested, like he doesn't already know exactly what I'm here for.

I swallow, the hollow ache in my chest growing. "Don't play dumb, House. You know what I mean."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, giving me that look—the one that says he's not impressed, that he's in control, that I'm just another piece on his chessboard. "You think there's something to talk about?"

I don't flinch, but his words sting. "Yes," I say, my voice firmer than I feel. "I think there's something you're avoiding. Or pretending didn't happen. But I'm not going to stand here and act like everything's fine when it isn't."

He sighs, looking away as if he's already bored of the conversation. "Evelyn, not everything needs a conversation. Sometimes things just... are."

I feel a spark of frustration flare up inside me, cutting through the numbness. "So that's it? You just ignore me, and I'm supposed to act like it doesn't matter? Like I'm not standing here feeling like an idiot for thinking you might actually care?"

He glances back at me, something flickering in his eyes—a crack in that stone wall he hides behind. But it's gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar, detached expression. "What do you want me to say?" he asks, his tone flat.

"I don't know," I whisper, feeling the ache in my chest deepen. "I just... I want to know what this is to you. If it means anything. Because if it doesn't, I'd rather know now than keep walking around with this... this empty feeling, like I'm waiting for something that's never going to happen."

He's silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on me, like he's weighing his options. "You're waiting for something?" he says, his voice barely above a murmur. It's the closest he's come to showing any kind of vulnerability, but it feels like it's coated in something darker—something I can't reach.

I nod, forcing myself to meet his gaze, even though it feels like I'm baring my soul. "Yes. I'm waiting for you to let me in. To stop acting like you're above feeling anything, like you're too good to care about anyone."