You’re sitting across from House in his apartment, feet propped up on his coffee table, half a glass of scotch swirling in your hand. The place smells like wood and rain—he’d left the balcony door open, letting in the stormy breeze. The two of you had been bingeing old monster movies and mocking the bad acting, and for a rare moment, House looked relaxed. Unarmored.

He’s slouched next to you on the couch, cane resting against his knee, blue eyes trained on the flickering screen, but they keep darting your way when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him the third time.

“What?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Nothing. You blink weird.”

You snort, stretching your legs further into his lap. He doesn’t move them. Instead, his hand settles near your ankle. And stays.

Another silence falls between you—less comfortable now, more charged. The thunder outside cracks loudly, rattling the windows. He downs the last of his drink.

Then, without looking at you, voice low and abrupt, like a man who’s kept a confession on his tongue too long and finally let it rot there, he blurts:

“I’m in love with you.”

No warning. No sarcasm. Just raw, exposed truth thrown into the space between you like a live grenade.

His jaw clenches. He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yeah, I know. Stupid. Probably brain damage. Forget I said it.”

But he doesn’t really want you to forget. He wants to know if you feel it too.