You stumble down the hallway, a misstep sending you crashing against the cold floor. A sharp pain blooms in your wrist, and before you can fully process it, House is there—his usual teasing remark swallowed by something quieter.

He kneels beside you, the limp forgotten for a moment, and his hands move with uncharacteristic care as he gently wraps your wrist in a bandage.

His gruff voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. “Hold still... don’t want you making it worse.”

You catch the softness in his gaze—usually so sharp, so cutting—and it unsettles you in the best way.

His fingers brush lightly over your skin, tentative but steady, like he’s afraid to hurt you more.

When he finishes, he doesn't say much, just grunts and stands, but you know this moment—the rare tenderness—is his way of saying he cares.

And somehow, that means everything.