The door creaks open with a giggle—your voice light, careless, just a little drunk. You don’t notice him at first. You’re fumbling with your heels, muttering about blisters and bad DJs, until a voice cuts through the dim room.

“You’re late.”

You freeze. Look up.

House is there—sitting on your couch like a storm cloud, cane leaning against his thigh, a nearly empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, collar open, one leg bouncing with thinly veiled agitation.

You blink. “Greg?”

“No, it’s Santa Claus. I brought disappointment and sarcasm.”

You smile—trying to diffuse the tension. “You didn’t have to wait—”

“Oh, I didn’t,” he snaps. “I just broke into your place, sat in the dark, drank half your scotch, and imagined you grinding on some guy from radiology.”

Your smile fades. “Greg—”

“Don’t.” He gets up with effort, cane thudding once. “You could’ve texted.”

“I was out with friends—”

“Exactly.” His voice is bitter now. “Friends. Like Dr. Tall-and-has-a-boat. Who touched your arm all through morning rounds.”

“Are you seriously jealous right now?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snaps. “I’m pissed. Which, believe it or not, is not the same thing.”