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House lounged on the worn leather couch, his legs sprawled out, one hand resting on his cane and the other holding a small orange bottle. He twisted the cap off with a practiced motion, popping a Vicodin into his mouth, dry swallowing it like it was second nature. The TV flickered in front of him, some mindless medical drama playing that he didn’t really care about, but it was enough to keep the room from feeling too quiet.
The soft shuffle of feet caught his attention, though he didn’t immediately look up. The sound was delicate, light—Y/N. He could always tell when it was her, the way she moved so quietly, almost like she was trying not to disturb anything around her. She was like that—sweet, considerate, always thinking of others. It was one of the many things he didn’t deserve about her. Sometimes he couldn't help but think the quietness was out of fear. Fear of him, maybe.
When she finally stepped into his line of sight, he glanced over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in. She looked stunning, even more so than usual, and that was saying something. Y/N was a vision, with her eyes that seemed to contain more hope than he had in a lifetime, her hair styled with great effort, and those lips that seemed to smile almost by default. Her skin was mostly clear, something he could never understand, as he never washed his sheets and pillow cases. She always looked out of place in his world—a world of grays and dull colors.
Tonight, she was dressed up in a way that made his breath catch for a split second, not that he’d admit it. She picked out a dress she liked, one that she had told him about but soon realized he wasn't listening, but it was the way she wore it—like she had no idea how beautiful she was—that really got to him. Her earrings sparkled as they caught the light, delicate bracelets jingled softly on her wrists, and a necklace lay against her collarbone, drawing attention to the graceful curve of her neck.
He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he spoke. “Why are you all dressed up?” His voice was gruff, not unkind but definitely not gentle. House wasn’t one for soft words or outward displays of affection. He loved her, maybe, in his own fucked-up way, but he wasn’t about to show it like a normal person would.
Y/N eyes flickered with a mix of emotions—hope, nervousness, maybe a bit of hurt already lurking beneath the surface. But she smiled, that sweet, tentative smile she always gave him when she was trying to get him to do something he’d inevitably refuse. “I was thinking…” she began, her voice soft and coaxing, “maybe we could go somewhere? Just… get out for a bit.”
House’s response was immediate, almost as if he’d been waiting for her to suggest something he could shoot down. “No,” he said bluntly, without even looking away from the TV. He reached for the remote, flipping the channel to something else, something just as meaningless. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
The words hit Y/N like a physical blow, though she was careful not to show it. She’d expected this, really, she had, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. “Okay,” she whispered, the word barely audible as she moved to sit down on the other end of the couch. She crossed her legs carefully, her hands trembling slightly as she reached up to unclasp her necklace. The tiny metal piece clicked softly as it came undone, and she placed it gently on the coffee table. Next came her earrings, and then her bracelets, each one coming off with a quiet jingle that seemed louder than it should have in the silence that had settled between them.
House noticed, of course he did. He noticed everything, even when he pretended he didn’t. He saw the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way she bit her bottom lip as she placed her jewelry on the table like she was putting away her dreams for the night. He didn’t say anything, though. What was there to say? He was who he was, and she knew that.
Y/N sat there for a moment longer, her hands resting in her lap, before she stood up again. She moved with that same quiet grace, disappearing back into the bedroom. House heard the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle clink of hangers, and he knew she was changing. A part of him felt guilty, but it was buried deep beneath layers of indifference and self-loathing.
When Y/N returned, she was a different version of herself. Gone was the stunning girl in the dress, replaced by the Y/N he was more used to seeing. Her hair was unstyled now, though still pretty, a bit more natural. She wore one of his old hoodies, the fabric much too big for her. Her shorts peeked out from underneath, and she looked more like the girl who curled up next to him on the couch every night than the one who had been hoping for a night out.
She sat back down beside him, curling up with her legs tucked underneath her, almost as if she were trying her best to be small, to take up as little space as possible. House could sense the tension in her, the way she was holding back tears, trying not to let him see how much this was affecting her.
He glanced at her, his expression softening for a brief moment before hardening again. “You didn’t have to change,” he muttered, not looking directly at her. It was as close to an apology as she was going to get from him, and they both knew it.
Y/N just nodded, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie over her hands, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I just… wanted to be comfortable.” Lying, obviously. Her now dimmed eyes stared at the TV, but she wasn’t really watching it. She was focused on not crying, on keeping herself together in front of him.
House knew he was an asshole, knew he was breaking her heart a little more each day, but he didn’t know how to stop. So instead, he leaned back into the couch, popping another pill, and let the silence fill the space between them.
~~~
Y/N sat there in silence, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. House could feel her unease, the way she was holding herself together, but he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at this—relationships, emotions, any of it. He had done it before, and Y/N was… she was everything he wasn’t. She was sweet and kind, all soft edges and warm smiles, and he didn’t deserve her.
She shifted beside him, drawing in a shaky breath. “I think I’m just going to go to bed,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. She didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t even look at him, as she slowly got up from the couch.
He watched her go, swallowed by the oversized hoodie as she disappeared down the hallway. The soft click of the bedroom door closing behind her echoed in the suddenly too-quiet apartment, and House was alone again.
He tried to focus on the TV, but the show had lost whatever little interest it had held. His mind kept drifting back to Y/N, to the way she had looked when she walked into the room earlier, so hopeful and beautiful, and then the way her face had fallen when he’d shut her down.
It wasn’t like he didn’t care. That was the thing. He did care, more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. But he was House, and caring meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant pain. He’d built his entire life around avoiding pain, numbing himself to it with pills and sarcasm, with pushing people away before they could get too close. Y/N was different, though. She had slipped past his defenses, seeped her way into the parts of him that he thought were long dead.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and feeling his harsh stubble as the TV droned on in the background. He could still see her sitting beside him, her hands trembling as she took off her earrings and necklace. The image was seared into his mind, and it gnawed at him, the guilt twisting in his gut. He’d hurt her, again, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she realized she deserved better and walked away for good.
But she hadn’t walked away tonight. She had gone to bed, in his hoodie, in his bed, and he knew she was probably lying there right now, curled up under the covers, trying not to cry. And what was he doing? Sitting here, watching some shitty TV show he didn’t even care about, because it was easier than dealing with the mess he’d made.
He popped another Vicodin, though he wasn’t even sure it would do anything at this point. The numbness he craved was elusive tonight, slipping through his fingers like sand. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, about how hurt and fragile she’d looked, about how he should have done something—said something—to make it right.
But he didn’t move. He stayed on the couch, staring blankly at the screen, trying to push the thoughts away. Y/N was in the next room, and he could go to her if he wanted. He could tell her he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to be such an asshole, that he loved her in his own fucked-up way. But the words felt heavy, like they were stuck in his throat, and he didn’t know how to get them out.
So he sat there, alone in the dim light of the living room, the sound of the TV nothing more than background noise to the turmoil in his mind. He couldn’t shake the image of her, lying in bed, probably crying into the pillow. He hated himself for putting that look on her face, for hurting her when all she wanted was to spend time with him.
Minutes ticked by, and the guilt only grew, gnawing at him until it was unbearable. He found himself glancing toward the hallway, wondering if she was still awake, if she’d let him in if he went to her now. He wanted to, but the fear of fucking it up even more kept him rooted to the spot.
He sighed again, a deep, weary sound, and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. This was his life—pushing away the one person who actually gave a damn about him because he was too scared to let her in, too scared to let himself feel anything real.
But even as he tried to convince himself it was better this way, he couldn’t help the nagging thought in the back of his mind: what if he had just said yes? What if he had taken her out tonight, let her have that moment she’d been hoping for? Maybe she would be sitting beside him now, her head resting on his shoulder and talking about the wonderful time they had, instead of lying alone in the dark.
House closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to block out the thoughts, but they wouldn’t go away. No matter how many pills he took, no matter how much he tried to focus on the TV, he couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N. She was in the next room, and all he had to do was get up, walk down the hall, and open the door.
But he stayed where he was, too stubborn, too afraid to take that step.