It had been the kind of week that aged a person. Five patients, three near lawsuits, one attending with a superiority complex, and your sleep-deprived body running on bitter coffee and a growing disdain for fluorescent hospital lighting.

So when House limped into the diagnostics office that Friday afternoon, tossing keys onto your desk without explanation, you barely lifted your head.

“What?” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

He didn’t answer—just flopped into his chair and tapped at his Vicodin bottle. Then he added, like it was nothing, “You might want to pack a bag. Warm stuff. I took a reservation.”

You blinked. “A reservation? For what? With who?”

He leaned back, eyes closing. “Chalet. Firewood. Wi-Fi that barely works. And unless you’re planning to let Foreman massage your frontal cortex all weekend, you’re coming.”

You stared at him—Gregory House, the man who’d rather fake dying than take a vacation—offering you a weekend away like it was part of the treatment plan. No teasing. No smirk. Just a slight glance your way like he didn’t know how to say he noticed the dark circles under your eyes.

"I needed a break. And if I go alone, I’ll drink myself into a coma or sleep with a cougar. Neither’s fun anymore.” A beat passed. “Besides, you flinch when your pager vibrates now. You need this more than I do.”