It was subtle at first—he came in late, as usual, limping down the hallway with a coffee in one hand and a scowl painted fresh on his face. But something was… off. Cleaner. Sharper.

Your eyes narrowed as he passed diagnostics.

The scruff still clung to his jaw, but above it—his hair. Shorter. Less wild. A deliberate mess instead of accidental chaos. And when he dropped into his seat with a grunt and caught your stare, he blinked like he’d been caught shirtless.

“Say something,” he muttered dryly, not looking up from his coffee. You leaned back with a slow, knowing smile.

“I like it,” you said. “You look... good.” House stiffened. Blinked. Then scoffed a little too fast. “It’s just hair.” “Not just any hair,” you added playfully. “It’s your hair. And you cut it for something. A date? A funeral? A midlife crisis?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug, his gaze flicking up to yours. “If it’s the latter, it's your fault. You're aging me faster than Vicodin.” Still—his ears were turning pink.

And later, when he thought no one was watching, he ran his fingers through it... just to check if you were still looking.