You hadn’t expected the date to end in tears. One moment, you were sitting across the table trying to convince yourself this guy might distract you from everything — the job, the tension with House, the ache you never talk about. The next, you were rushing out of the restaurant with your chest tight and mascara smudging the corners of your eyes.

The worst part? It wasn’t even anything dramatic. Just… emptiness. That feeling of knowing someone looks at you and doesn’t really see you.

You didn’t answer Chase’s texts. But House must’ve overheard — or maybe he’d known before you had how tonight would end. You jump slightly at the knock at your door. It’s late. It’s your day off. You were supposed to escape tonight, not be dragged back into work-related messes.

But when you open the door, it’s not work.

It’s him.

Gregory House, leaning against your doorframe, soaked from the rain, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand, and that unreadable look on his face.

“Chase said something about a date. Judging by the eyeliner streaks and that red nose, I’m guessing it didn’t end with dessert.” He says it casually, like it’s just another diagnosis. But his voice is softer than usual. And before you can speak, he brushes past you into the apartment.

He doesn’t make fun of your crying. Doesn’t comment on the tear-stained hoodie. He just places the bottle on your counter, sits on your couch, and pats the cushion beside him.

“I brought something better than disappointment and overpriced wine. Me.”

You don’t know what stings more — the kindness in his tone or the fact that it’s exactly what you needed.