House is sitting on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, cane discarded on the floor. Something’s happened—he won’t say what. A case gone wrong. A patient he couldn’t save. Maybe just the kind of night where the ghosts get loud. He doesn’t look at you or Wilson when you come in. Just stares at the floor like it’s mocking him. His jaw is tight. His hands are still. Too still.

“Hey,” you say gently, moving slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. “You left work without saying anything.”

House shrugs. “Didn’t think I’d be good company.”

“You don’t have to be,” Wilson says, already lowering himself into the armchair beside him. “You just have to be here.”

He doesn’t respond.

You kneel in front of him, resting your hands on his knees, just enough pressure to be real but not demanding. His eyes flicker to yours—brief, sharp, pained.

You see it.

The fear. The grief. The exhaustion he keeps locked behind layers of sarcasm and arrogance.

“I don’t need—” he starts, but his voice catches, and that’s all it takes.

You shift up to sit beside him, pulling him gently into your side. Wilson does the same from the other end of the couch, warm and steady. Neither of you speaks. You just sit with him, the three of you close enough to share breath.

Eventually, he leans—just a little—into you. His head finds your shoulder. One of Wilson’s hands comes to rest against his back. It’s subtle. Quiet. But it’s there.

“I hate this,” he says quietly. Not the comfort. Just the weight.