You don’t say anything when House comes in, just keep your eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past him. Your stomach clenches, but not from hunger—just the weight of everything else. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday, maybe the day before. It doesn’t matter.

He notices the food you didn’t touch. Of course he does.

“You’re not gonna eat it, are you?”

No answer. You pull the blanket a little higher, try to disappear into it.

House doesn’t argue. He limps over, grabs the bowl, and disappears into the kitchen. You hear the hum of the microwave. A minute later, he returns—sits down beside you without asking, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other.

“Open your mouth,” he says, but there’s no sarcasm behind it. Just quiet insistence.

You shake your head slowly. You can’t. Not now. The thought of chewing, swallowing—it’s too much. Your chest is too heavy.

So he shifts beside you, arms moving under yours until he’s cradling you—awkwardly at first, then more secure. Your body rests against his chest, legs folded beside you, the blanket still tangled around your knees.

House props the bowl on the arm of the couch and scoops up a soft bite—mashed potatoes, warm and smooth—and brings the spoon toward your lips.

You almost resist again.

But then he hums.

Not a song you know. Just a low, steady sound. Soothing, rhythmic. His fingers drift into your hair—slow, absent strokes, like he’s calming a stray animal, or maybe himself.

Your jaw loosens before your brain can protest, and he gently nudges the spoon in. The taste is gentle. You swallow.

“There,” he murmurs, not mocking, just...satisfied.