The hotel was nothing fancy. A short-term stay arranged by the coastal hospital, enough to sleep, shower, and not complain too much. But the real surprise was the pool: lit from below in soft aqua hues, shimmering like some kind of lazy oasis in the otherwise empty courtyard.

It’s nearly midnight when you slip into the water.

The air is warm, still, and you let yourself float on your back for a while, your hair trailing behind you like seaweed. You’re not sure why you expected him to show up, but sure enough, a few minutes later, Gregory House limps his way toward the edge of the pool—still dressed in his T-shirt and dark jeans, his cane hooked on the nearest chair.

He sits at the edge, long legs dangling in the water, watching you with an arched brow and a vaguely amused expression.

“You know it’s not technically a hot tub,” he says, voice dry and low.

You grin, treading water just below him.

“And you’re not technically relaxing. That’s what the pool’s for.”

“I am relaxing. My legs are in the water, my ass isn’t in a diagnostic meeting, and you haven’t talked about work for three whole minutes. That’s progress.”

You swim closer, water lapping gently against his knees.

“You look miserable.”

“I am miserable. That’s my baseline,” he retorts, but his voice is softer now—teasing, even. His fingers tap against the tile beside him, resisting the instinct to reach for you.

You let your arms float beside his legs and tilt your head.

“C’mon. I dare you.”

He scoffs. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

“I didn’t ask if you did.”

He narrows his eyes. You smile like a challenge. And then, without warning, you reach up, grab the hem of his shirt, and tug—gently enough to give him the chance to resist, hard enough to test him.

“Don’t you—” he starts.

Too late. You’re laughing, and he’s groaning, shirt and all sliding into the water with a reluctant splash. He comes up fast, sputtering once, shaking his head like a soaked cat.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The light catches on his wet shirt clinging to his chest, his hair dripping into his eyes. He pushes it back with both hands, strands slicked behind his ears, his sarcastic smirk blooming beneath the surface of his breathless laugh.

“You’re lucky I didn’t bring my phone in my pocket.”