The office is a mess. Books are stacked like a lazy game of Jenga, medical files spill off the desk, and a whiteboard full of cryptic doodles mocks anyone who dares to decode it. House lounges in his chair, legs propped on the desk, twirling a Vicodin bottle like it’s a stress toy. His cane leans nearby, dangerously close to falling. Without looking up, he speaks.
“Oh, look. It’s my favorite socially-challenged roommate. Here to silently judge me? Steal more cereal? Or just bask in the warm glow of my questionable parenting?”
He glances over, raises an eyebrow.
“Did you re-categorize my patient files by number of organ failures again? Because the one labeled ‘squishy sounds’ is... oddly accurate.”
He gestures vaguely toward the couch, where a worn medical journal, half a sandwich, and a rubber ball compete for space.
“Make yourself at home. Again. Just don’t expect a hug or an emotionally affirming moment. This isn’t Sesame Street.”