Cure- House, MD

chapter 15: house

The hospital halls feel quieter without her, though that might just be me projecting. Or maybe not. Evelyn has this way of filling a room with her presence—not with loudness, not always, but with this stubborn determination that says, "I'm here, and you better deal with it."

And now she's not here. She's halfway across the country, dealing with the very thing she tried to pretend wasn't her problem. A tumor. In her brain. Of course, she didn't want to go. That would've required admitting she needed help, and Evelyn Moss? She's allergic to that.

I lean back in my chair, propping my feet on the desk and staring at the whiteboard across the room. It's blank. Has been all day. I could fill it with cases, puzzles to solve, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. Against my better judgment.

The truth is, I wanted to go with her. I thought about it—hell, I even looked at flights. But let's be real. I don't do plane rides unless someone's actively dying, and even then, it's fifty-fifty. More importantly, what would I even do out there? Hold her hand in the waiting room? Pretend to care what her brother thinks of me? No. That's not my role in this. It wouldn't be appropriate. That's the excuse I'm sticking with.

Still, the thought of her in some sterile OR, her skull open while strangers poke around in her brain, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Not because I'm worried they'll screw up—her brother's good, I checked—but because I'm not there to make sure they don't.

And then there's the other part. The part I don't say out loud, even to myself. The part that admits I'm terrified. Not for her health—well, not just that. But for what happens after. Because if something goes wrong, if she's not... her anymore, I don't know what I'd do with that. I've gotten used to Evelyn Moss being in my orbit, challenging me, arguing with me, sometimes just being. It's annoying. Infuriating, even. But I like it.

Of course, I'd never tell her that. She'd get smug, and I can't have that.

I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath, and my thoughts wander further into dangerous territory. She's brilliant—infuriatingly so. But it's not just her brain that gets me. It's the way she looks at me, like she's not sure whether to slap me or kiss me. Usually both. The way she doesn't back down, even when she's clearly wrong. The way she can be so determined to stand on her own and still crumble just a little when the weight gets too heavy.

I smirk to myself, imagining her reaction to me thinking all this. She'd either melt or throw something at me. Probably the latter.

The door creaks open, and Wilson pokes his head in. He's looking at me like he knows I'm thinking too hard about something—or someone.

"You're brooding," he says, stepping inside and crossing his arms. "Thinking about her?"

"Don't flatter yourself," I reply, grabbing my cane and standing up. "But yes, if you must know, I'm thinking about the neurologist-shaped hole in this hospital."

He raises an eyebrow. "She's in surgery, right? Have you heard anything?"

"No. And I won't. It's not like she's going to call me the second she's out of anesthesia." I say it casually, but my stomach tightens at the thought.

"You could've gone with her," Wilson points out, ever the moral compass.

I shrug. "I'm not her family. I'm not her boyfriend. I'm not..." I trail off, realizing how bitter that sounds. "I've got obligations. Patients. Things to do."

"Uh-huh," Wilson says, clearly not buying it. "You care about her. It's okay to admit that."

"Thanks, Oprah," I quip. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a blank whiteboard to stare at."