You had a date tonight.

The kind of date that Wilson encouraged. The kind House scoffed at, loudly, while watching you pick a pair of earrings in the locker room mirror. He cracked jokes. He insulted the restaurant you hadn’t even named yet. And when you left the hospital, he didn’t say goodbye—he just watched you go with that unreadable look.

The hours passed. The wine was too sweet. The laughter too forced. You kept thinking about his voice, the way he muttered “what a waste” under his breath when you smiled at your reflection.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Gregory House: “Is he funny?” “Or just someone with all his limbs?”

You didn’t answer.

Now, it’s well past midnight. The sidewalk’s quiet. Your heels click against the pavement as you near your building—only to realize the lights are on in his place.

And his door… isn’t shut. It’s open. Just a little.

You knock, but he doesn’t answer. You push gently. He’s there—on the couch. Unshaven. Hoodie zipped up over his chest, cane tossed carelessly aside.

He looks at you like you caught him dreaming.

“I wasn’t waiting,” he lies immediately. “The door sticks sometimes.”

You take a step in, your voice quiet. “I thought you hated leaving things open.”

“I do,” he mutters. “Except tonight.”