The moment he said it—“You’re fired.”—you knew it wasn’t really about you.

House was pissed. You’d challenged him in front of the team, called him reckless, and worse—you were right. It was personal, and it cut deep.

Still, he said it. Cold. Final. The words echoed even after you walked out.

Now, it’s the next evening, and you’re still sitting with the weight of it. Wondering whether it’s pride or pain that’s keeping you from calling him first. You’re mid-thought, halfway through a glass of wine, when a sharp knock breaks the silence.

You open the door.

House.

In jeans and his usual jacket, but something’s different—his mouth pressed tight, eyes sharp but uncertain. He doesn’t ask to come in. Just walks past you, cane tapping quietly on your floor like a ticking clock.

“Nice place,” he mutters, pausing to scan your apartment like it's another diagnosis. “I was expecting... more sad.”

You cross your arms. “What do you want?”

He turns, exhales. And the bravado cracks.

“I screwed up.” Simple. Flat. No jokes. No sarcasm.

“You think?” you reply.

He walks to the counter, leans on it like it’s holding him up. “You got under my skin. I hate that. And when I hate things, I destroy them.”

You blink, stunned by the honesty.

“I didn’t fire you because you were wrong,” he continues. “I fired you because you saw something I didn’t want you to.”

He meets your eyes—finally.

“I want you back. But not because I need another brain on the team.” His voice drops, raw. “Because it’s unbearable in there without you.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “Come back.”