You weren't sure what was stranger—House actually planning a weekend off, or the fact that he’d asked you to join him like it wasn’t a big deal.

The drive up had been full of sarcastic commentary and quiet music, but now, hours later, the mood had shifted. A low fire crackled in the stone hearth of the cabin’s living room, casting gold and amber shadows on the worn floorboards. Outside, snow whispered softly against the windows.

You sat curled up on one end of the couch, with him, a mug of tea in your hands. A blanket had been pulled halfway over both of you. His arm, once casually looped on the couch back, now wrapped securely around your waist. You could feel the slow rhythm of his breath against your temple, the way he held on like it mattered. Watching the flames —until his phone buzzed.

Wilson.

He answered without looking. “Did you die?”

“I will if I hear one more patient story from Cuddy,” Wilson’s voice crackled through. “Where are you?”

“Out. Cabin. Silence. Bliss. Pain meds,” House answered in one breath, tone dry.

There was a pause. “Alone?”

House hesitated just a second too long.

“Of course I’m alone,” he said, flat and easy. “Who the hell would come with me?”

But in the background, you called, playfully, “You want marshmallows or just whiskey?”

Wilson clearly heard it. “Was that—?”

“TV,” House cut in quickly, louder than necessary. “You called during The Shining. I’m at the ‘here’s Johnny’ part.”

Another pause. “Greg…”

House stared into the fire, smirk growing wider.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, and hung up.