The knock wasn’t loud. Just three soft taps on the glass — almost hesitant. House paused mid-sentence in whatever bitter thought he was scrawling in a battered notebook, eyes narrowing.

Another tap.

He got up, limped across the room, and pulled back the curtain. The night air hit him like a warning.

You were there. Hoodie up. Nose bloodied. Split lip. Not meeting his eyes.

He opened the window without a word. Cold air spilled in.

You climbed in slow, like your body hurt more than just physically. He watched in silence.

“Your dad?”

No answer. That was answer enough.

He exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck, trying to stay sharp.