You didn’t mean to find it. You were looking for a case file—just one patient, one detail House forgot to mention in the diagnostic meeting. His office was dark, left in its usual half-mess from the day before. You knew the password to his computer. You always had.

The file wasn’t there. But the email confirmation was. A receipt. A timestamp from three nights ago. An escort service. A name you didn’t recognize. You could’ve closed it. Should’ve. But the photos attached… God.

She had your hair. Your smile. Your eyes—not exactly, but enough to make your stomach flip. And now you’re sitting there, stunned. Blinking like maybe the screen will disappear. Like maybe it won’t mean what you think it means.

You hear the cane before you see him. His lazy gait. His usual mutter. “If you’re going to snoop, at least alphabetize while you’re at it,” House drawls from the doorway.

You shut the screen with a soft snap, but not fast enough. He knows.

“You were looking for a case file,” he adds casually. “Didn’t know you’d find my tragic love life instead.”

You don’t say anything at first. You don’t know how. He walks closer, eyes flicking toward the laptop. Then to you. “You’re not gonna slut-shame me, are you?” he says with that usual smirk, like he’s already preloading the defense.

You still don’t speak. Just stare at him. And that’s what gets him. Not your silence. Your eyes.

“What?” he says, softer now. “She was… convenient.”

You laugh. But it’s short. Bitter. “She looked like me.”

His gaze flinches, just slightly. “No, she didn’t,” he says. But the way he won’t meet your eyes betrays him.

You stand up. Step past him. You need air. Distance. Something. But he catches your wrist—not hard, not rough. “You weren’t picking up your phone,” he says quietly.

And there it is. The echo of truth in his voice. Not lust. Not loneliness. Not boredom. Need.

Your breath stutters. “So you hired a lookalike?” you whisper.

He swallows. His thumb presses into your wrist just barely.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he mutters. “Not that night. And you were gone. So yeah. I took the echo.” You look at him. At the way his mask slips. At the ache under the arrogance. "If I had had the real thing, I don’t think I would’ve let you leave.”