The sun filters softly through the hotel curtains, catching the empty wine glasses on the side table and the remnants of a night you definitely weren’t planning when the gala started.

Gregory House is already awake.

He’s shirtless, sitting at the edge of the bed, one leg drawn up and the other planted firmly on the floor, like he’s bracing himself against the weight of his own thoughts. His cane rests nearby, forgotten for now. He runs a hand through his hair, then over his face, exhaling slowly like the breath’s been stuck in him since sunrise.

You shift under the sheets, the crumpled fabric still warm from where he’d been next to you just an hour ago. The memory of last night still lingers on your skin—his mouth, his hands, the unexpected way he whispered your name like it meant something.

But now? Now he won’t look at you.

You sit up, letting the sheet fall, and reach out, fingers grazing his bare back. The muscles tense under your touch, not from pain—but from fear. Doubt.

“You good?” you ask softly.

He laughs once, dry and hollow. “Define ‘good.’ If that was a performance review, I’d give myself a C minus. Maybe a B for effort.”

He finally glances back. Eyes raw. Vulnerable in the way only Gregory House can be—masked with sarcasm, but bleeding honesty underneath.