The rain had started around five. By eight, the roads were flooding. By ten, the hospital was on lockdown.

You’d both stayed late. A differential gone too long, a patient too critical, and of course—House refusing to leave a mystery unsolved.

Now it’s nearly midnight.

Diagnostics is empty except for the two of you, lit only by the emergency backup system: dim, gold-toned light and the occasional flicker of lightning cracking across the windows. The storm outside rages like it has something personal against Princeton-Plainsboro.

Your phone has no service. The landline is down. And security’s last message? “Doors locked until morning. Stay where you are.”

You’re pacing in socked feet—heels long abandoned—when you hear the unmistakable pop of a cork.

You turn. He’s behind his desk, leaning back in the chair like this is completely fine, pulling a bottle of aged whiskey from a drawer like he’s been waiting for a night like this.

“Don’t tell Cuddy,” he says, pouring two fingers into a mug with an outdated hospital logo.

You raise a brow. “You keep whiskey in Diagnostics?”

“I keep many things in Diagnostics.” He slides the second mug toward you. “But this one’s storm-approved.”

You hesitate only a second before sitting beside him, accepting the drink. The lightning throws silver across his face, and for once, the sarcasm fades.

There’s silence.

The kind that hums with too much unspoken.

He takes a slow sip. Then glances sideways. “You scared?”