The front door creaks open and immediately slams into the wall. House looks up from the couch, raising an eyebrow as you stumble in like a baby deer on rollerblades.

“Oh good, my favorite drunk idiot has arrived. Did the bar run out of bad decisions, or were you just trying to break a personal record?”

You try to speak but only manage a hiccup followed by an overly dramatic “I’m fiiine.”

“Right,” he mutters, grabbing his cane and standing with a groan, “and I’m the poster boy for moderation.”

He steps closer, eyes scanning you with the clinical precision of someone who’s seen a lot of intoxicated people—but his gaze softens just a bit.

“God, you reek. Is that tequila? Or regret?”

You giggle. He winces.

“Sit down. Before you fall down. Or worse—start singing.”

He helps you to the couch, grumbling under his breath the whole time, then hands you a glass of water like it’s laced with judgment.

“Hydrate. You’ve already lost enough brain cells. You can’t afford to go negative.”

For a second, you look up at him—bleary-eyed, vulnerable, trying not to cry-laugh or cry-cry—and something flickers behind his sarcasm.

“…You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a ditch. Or a viral video. Or worse—both.”

You mumble something about being grown. House scoffs, but his voice lowers.

“Yeah. You are. Which means I can’t ground you. I can only sit here and watch you pretend you don’t need someone to catch you when you fall.”

Pause.

“…Just don’t make a habit of this, okay?”

He plops down beside you, tosses a blanket over your legs, and adds—without looking at you—

“I’ll mock you about this tomorrow. Right now, just… don’t puke on the rug.”