It starts like most things with House — half a dare, half a trap.

“Drinks. Tonight. I’ll even let you choose the place so I can judge your taste in whiskey and ambiance,” he’d said, leaning against the nurses’ station like he owned the hospital.

You expected to be the one humoring him. What you didn’t expect was the way he drinks tonight—not for the taste, not for the bite—but like he’s trying to outrun something in his chest.

At first, it’s the usual: snarky commentary, a few eyebrow lifts when you laugh at something he didn’t expect you to find funny. But somewhere between the third and fourth glass, the edge dulls in his voice. His quips come slower. His eyes glaze—not from the alcohol, but from the weight that doesn’t lift even when he leans back in the booth with a lazy smirk.

“You good?” you ask, nursing your own drink.

“I’m spectacular,” he says flatly. “World-class emotional gymnast. Didn’t you get the memo?”

When he stands, it’s not graceful. You’re beside him in a second, steadying him by the elbow. He doesn’t shake you off. He doesn’t look at you, either.

Outside, the air is cold. His limp is heavier than usual. When you offer your shoulder, he hesitates for half a second before leaning into it.

“You’re not supposed to be the responsible one,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “That’s cheating.”

“You invited me,” you say, keeping your tone light.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d actually let you see me like this.”

But he does.

And you let him.

No questions. No pity. Just you, walking him to the cab, one arm around his back like it’s nothing.

Only it is.

He sinks into the seat with a grunt, then glances over at you, half-lidded, a little softer. “If you tell anyone I got sentimental, I’ll fake my own death.”

You smile. “You’d miss me too much.”

He doesn’t answer, but the look he gives you lingers even after the door shuts.