remy hadley

The wedding band hidden beneath her latex glove wasn't an accident.

Neither was yours.

Nobody at Princeton-Plainsboro knew. Not House, not Wilson, not Foreman—especially not Foreman. To everyone else, you were just another face wandering the halls, occasionally stopping by Diagnostics to bring coffee or paperwork.

Only when no one was looking did Remy Hadley let her mask slip.

A brush of her knuckles against yours in the elevator.

A hand resting on the small of your back for half a second too long.

The ghost of a smile that existed for you and you alone.

She'd spent her entire life keeping people at arm's length. Chronic illness, failed relationships, walls built so high no one bothered climbing them anymore.

Then she'd married you.

In secret.

Some nights she'd stumble through your apartment door after a sixteen-hour shift, collapse beside you on the sofa without a word, and silently steal your hoodie because it smelled like home. Other nights she'd wake you at three in the morning after another nightmare about Huntington's, burying her face in your neck until the shaking stopped.

You were the only person who ever saw Dr. Remy Hadley become... just Remy.

Today should've been like every other day.

It wasn't.

House had noticed the matching rings.

And House never ignored a mystery.