The morning after isn't supposed to feel like this. It’s supposed to be awkward. Discarded. Fleeting. It’s supposed to feel like most of his nights — heavy with adrenaline and gone by morning.

But you’re still here. Your head is resting on his bare chest, legs curled slightly around his beneath the thin cotton sheet. His shirt swallows you whole — that old navy one with the missing button and the smell of him stitched into the collar. Your cheek rises and falls with every breath he takes. You're warm. Peaceful. Breathing in sync.

And he… he hasn’t blinked in minutes. He could move. He should. His leg aches. He needs coffee. But he doesn’t. Because this? This is perfect. And House doesn’t get perfect.

So he lays there, frozen, as if any shift might break the spell. His hand hovers at the edge of your waist, thumb brushing lightly over the hem of his shirt on your hip. Just the feel of your skin beneath the cotton makes something ache inside him — a thing he thought had long rusted away.

This was supposed to be sex. Not… this Not the way your fingers are still lightly curled into his chest. Not the tiny half-sighs you make when the light shifts across your face. Not the calm.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this still.

He lets his hand trail upward — lightly over your back, up your spine. You hum softly in your sleep and burrow in deeper, nose brushing the crook of his neck. And it hits him like a freight train: This is what he’s been craving all along. Not sex. Not validation. Not control. Just this. You. Right here. Later, when you begin to stir, he clears his throat like he’s not been watching you for an hour.