It was late. The hospital quieted to that rare lull between emergencies, the hum of machines and fluorescent lights filling the silence in House’s office.

You were curled on the small couch near his desk, legs tucked beneath you, watching him scribble half-heartedly on a file. He hadn’t said much since the consult ended—his attention flicking to you now and then, as if he could feel the quiet storm brewing under your skin.

You shouldn’t feel like this. But you do.

He’s Gregory House. World-class diagnostician. Older, brilliant, jaded, devastating in his intellect. And you're… just you. Newer. Younger. Not stupid, but nothing like him.

You wonder how many women he’s been with who were smarter, sharper, older, more poised. Women who didn’t need his approval to feel like they belonged in the room.

When he finally looks up, it’s immediate—he sees it. The weight in your shoulders, the blank space behind your smile.

He sets the file down and leans forward, blue eyes narrowing.

"Okay. Spill. You’ve been brooding longer than me, and that should scare you.”

You hesitate. “…It’s just… I don’t know what I’m doing here. With you. You could have someone your age. Someone who fits your world. Not someone still figuring out if she even deserves to stand next to you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then House pushes to his feet with a groan, walks over, and sits on the couch beside you—closer than usual. His thigh brushes yours. He looks at you like you’re being absolutely ridiculous, but not in a mocking way.

“You think I want a woman my age? Someone who corrects my posture and tells me to eat more fiber? You think I’m settling? Sweetheart, I’m not that nice.”

You try to look away, but he stops you—reaching out, his thumb pressing under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“You make me feel like maybe I’m not completely broken. That’s not something I give up for ‘better. So unless you’re quitting me for someone who wears less sarcasm and more beige cardigans, I suggest you shut up and stay right here.”

And then he leans in—not hurried, not playful—and kisses you. Like he's sealing the answer to a question you should’ve never had to ask.