You hadn't planned on staying long. Just dropping off the charger he claimed you "stole" (even though it’s definitely his). But when he grumbled for you to come in and not stand there like a weirdo, you stepped inside.

The lights are low. Music hums from his speakers—some moody classic rock ballad that doesn’t match his scowl. And then… something moves across the couch.

A small bundle of grey fur lifts its head, blinking lazily at you from a pillow that looks very deliberately placed. Its tail flicks once, unimpressed by your presence, before it curls back into a warm donut.

Your eyes widen.

It’s the cat.

The stray cat you’d pointed out behind the hospital a few weeks ago. The scrappy, one-eyed thing you always checked on during breaks, the one you said “reminded you of someone grumpy, brilliant, and impossible.”

“You mentioned it like, what, four times?” he mutters. “I figured if I didn’t do something about it, you’d eventually bring it here yourself.”

You take a cautious step toward the couch. The cat stretches, blinks again, then… purrs. You’re still speechless. He takes a sip of coffee.

You glance at him, eyes soft. “You adopted him?”

He scoffs. “No. He adopted me. Clearly likes sarcasm and bad knees.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Real.

And when you sit down beside the cat—who immediately climbs onto your lap—House doesn’t say anything. He just limps over, settles across from you, and pretends not to watch the way you smile.