The idea came from Kutner, of course. “Secret Santa!” he announced, practically vibrating with sugar and too much holiday spirit. House groaned so loudly from his office that Chase winced.

“You're participating,” Cuddy told him flatly. "Team building."

And so he did. With gritted teeth, loud protests, and a dramatic declaration that if anyone gave him socks, he’d set them on fire in the clinic.

You drew his name from the bowl and didn’t say a word—just folded the slip into your palm, heart fluttering like a middle school crush. He was impossible, prickly, brilliant. And you knew exactly what to get him.

On the day of the gift exchange, he slouched in his chair with all the holiday spirit of a half-deflated snowman. When his turn came, you walked over and dropped the small box in his lap.

House stared at it. “Oh boy, a scented candle?” he muttered, but there was a flicker of curiosity. He peeled the tape off with one hand, and the moment he saw what was inside—his brow lifted.

High-end noise-canceling headphones. Not flashy, not overly expensive, but solid. Sleek. Good enough to block the world out and get lost in music or silence.

He looked up at you, his voice quiet. “How did you know I—?”

You smiled. “You press your old ones five times per hour to make the left ear work. Thought you might need an upgrade.”

House stared. And then—rare, so rare—a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A real one. Not smug. Not sarcastic. Just... moved.