The light pours through his window like it’s trying to wake you gently. You barely stir against the sheets, hair a little tangled, still draped in one of his shirts. On the edge of the bed, House sits with his cane resting against the nightstand, fingers cradling a cup of black coffee.

His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, jeans hanging low on his hips, and his expression unreadable—until he looks at you.

He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t make a joke or vanish behind bravado. Instead, he picks up a warm, damp cloth and kneels awkwardly beside the bed, muttering under his breath.

“You drool in your sleep,” he says softly, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His fingers gently wipe beneath your eyes, clearing the smudge of mascara. He touches your skin like it’s breakable—like you’re something precious he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to have.

You stir, and he pauses. For once, Gregory House doesn’t run. He stays.

“And before you say anything,” he murmurs, “I made coffee. Try not to fall in love with me.”