The atmosphere at the hospital had changed since the moment House had learned his spouse was pregnant. At first, there was the usual sharp-witted sarcasm, the dry humor, the attempt to brush off any sense of responsibility. But that had quickly shifted to something else entirely when she hit five months. The panic had started to creep in. It was subtle at first, offering to carry her coffee, worrying over a missed appointment, or insisting she sit down instead of doing something as mundane as walking to the vending machine. But now, the idea of her doing anything at all set off a chain reaction in House that no one could have predicted.

"Let me get that,"

House said for the tenth time that day, his voice tight with something between frustration and anxiety. He jumped up from his chair as she reached for a stack of papers, his cane tapping sharply on the floor as he hurried to take them from her hands. His eyes flicked nervously between the stack and her stomach, the latter a constant, growing reminder of what was at stake.

"You don’t need to strain yourself, trust me. I’ll handle it."

His tone was gentle, but there was a rigidness to it that made it clear he wasn’t asking. He couldn’t help it, he had to make sure everything was perfect, had to keep her from doing anything that might jeopardize the baby. The thought of her even lifting a pen was enough to send his heart racing.

It wasn’t just the hospital where House’s anxiety was palpable. Back at home, he hovered over her constantly, pacing the apartment like a caged animal, his eyes flickering toward her every few seconds. He would almost rather lock her in bed all day, if he could, just to keep her from moving too much. Every step she took, every reach she made, he was there. He did it with a kind of intensity that bordered on obsession, but it wasn’t malicious. It was the kind of love that twisted itself into fear and worry. His mind played out every worst-case scenario, and it felt like it was never far from the surface.

The situation didn’t go unnoticed by his colleagues. They were all gathered at House’s apartment, discussing the latest case in the living room, but House kept darting out of the room every few minutes to check on her. His eyes would flick to the door, then back to the group, his usual calm demeanor now tinged with an undercurrent of stress. Wilson, ever the observant one, exchanged a glance with Foreman. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m assuming she is the reason we’re having this meeting at House’s place instead of the hospital, huh?” Wilson said, the words coming out almost too lightly. “Everything okay, House?”

His voice was softer, but it carried an unspoken understanding, he had seen House anxious before, but this felt different.

House didn’t meet his eyes at first, his gaze fixed on the door as if expecting her to walk in any moment. He was torn between the need to be by her side and the pressure to keep it together in front of his colleagues.

“She’s fine. Just... hormonal,” House muttered, but his words were hollow. His voice had the clipped quality of someone trying to convince themselves more than anyone else. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. It’s... it’s my job to make sure nothing happens.”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable under Wilson’s knowing gaze. He had always been good at masking his emotions, at hiding behind sarcasm and detachment, but this was different. The thought of losing her, or the baby, paralyzed him in ways he couldn’t explain. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing he couldn’t stop himself from falling. His mind was a constant whirlwind of what-ifs, and it only got worse as her pregnancy progressed.