The file folder lies forgotten on the coffee table, half open, pages crumpling under the weight of disinterest and scotch.

House doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

You're curled up on his old couch, head resting in his lap, the flickering light of a black-and-white film dancing over your sleeping features. Somewhere between symptom timelines and snarky banter, you dozed off, your breath slowing, your body finally relaxing beside him.

He hasn’t moved since.

One hand rests idly in your hair, fingers absently brushing through the strands like it’s second nature. The other cradles a half-full tumbler of scotch, loose in his grip, tilted just enough to catch the light.

The TV drones on with mid-century charm and tragic violins. He’s not watching it. He’s watching you.

And despite himself—despite the chronic pain, the layered sarcasm, the need to push everything away—he doesn’t want to move. Not tonight.

You trusted him enough to fall asleep like this. On him. Around him. Despite everything he is. He takes a slow sip of his drink. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just… watches. And stays.