Chasing Hearts (Robert Chase x Reader)

Chapter 17

Even you couldn't escape House's barbs. "So," he drawled, leaning back with an exaggerated air of disinterest, "are you brooding over the case, or is that furrowed brow just your natural state?"

"I'm fine, House," you replied evenly, though the edge in your tone made him smirk.

"Sure, you are," he quipped, echoing Foreman's earlier words. "Just keep pretending you don't care that Dr. Charming hasn't shown up."

You didn't take the bait, turning your attention back to the group.

The drinks flowed freely, each round loosening the tension in your chest a little more. Foreman and Wilson tried—and failed—to out-dance Cameron, who was clearly in her element. At one point, House actually clinked glasses with you, muttering, "Here's to pretending we're functional human beings for one night."

The hours melted away, the laughter blending into the music until it felt like the world outside didn't exist.

But as the clock ticked past midnight, the energy began to shift. Cameron sank into a booth with a contented sigh, her cheeks flushed from the dancing. Foreman leaned against the bar, nursing what was probably his last drink of the night. Even House looked marginally less sharp, his smirk softening into something almost resembling contentment.

You stepped outside for a breather, the cool air a welcome relief from the heat of the bar. For a moment, you let yourself revel in the quiet, the memories of the night keeping the storm in your chest at bay.

But it didn't last. As the cold seeped into your skin, so did the ache you'd tried to forget. Your thoughts wandered back to Chase—to the missed calls, the unanswered texts, the questions you still couldn't face.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, and headed back inside. You weren't ready to go home yet. Not to the silence, not to the weight of everything you were feeling.

The team was still gathered, their laughter spilling over like a tonic. You slid back into your seat, their warmth pulling you in again, at least for now.

You'd face everything else later. Tonight, you wanted to hold on to this—the fleeting sense of freedom, the comfort of shared laughter. Even if it didn't last, it was enough. For now.

The drinks kept flowing, and as the hours passed, sobriety became a distant memory for most of the group. The shift was gradual, subtle at first: looser smiles, louder laughs, bolder dance moves. Then it snowballed.

Foreman, who had started the night as the responsible one, was now dramatically reenacting a scene from Grey's Anatomy in the middle of the dance floor. "I can save them!" he shouted, clutching an empty shot glass like it was a scalpel. Cameron stood off to the side, arms crossed but visibly amused. "You're a neurologist," she said, her voice tinged with mock exasperation. "And that's a shot glass, not a defibrillator."

Foreman waved her off, clearly too far gone to care. "Details, Cameron. Details."

Meanwhile, House had commandeered the karaoke machine. He wasn't singing, though. No, that would've been too predictable. Instead, he was monologuing—a deeply slurred but oddly compelling tirade about how the medical field was "theater for the desperate."

"You see," he said, gesturing dramatically to the half-empty bar, "medicine isn't about saving lives. It's about the illusion of saving lives. We're all just actors on the stage of mortality."

Wilson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's quoting Shakespeare again, isn't he?"

"Shakespeare adjacent," Cameron replied, handing Wilson a glass of water. "I think it's best if we just let him tire himself out."