The office was too quiet for this late.
The hospital had settled into that distant hum—machines, footsteps far away, voices behind walls.
But in here—
It was just him.
And you.
You hadn’t meant to stay.
It just… happened.
Paperwork turned into silence. Silence turned into hours.
House didn’t tell you to leave.
That already meant something.
“You’re still here,” he said without looking up.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I live here.”
A small pause.
“You don’t.”
You leaned back slightly. “Maybe I should.”
“That’d explain a lot.”
Silence again.
Not awkward.
Just familiar.
You didn’t notice when your eyes closed.
—
When you woke up, something was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
Not the chair.
The couch.
A blanket, half thrown over you.
And—
You stilled.
House sat beside you, back against the armrest, leg stretched out. His arm rested behind you, close enough that you were already leaning into it.
Your head was on his shoulder.
He wasn’t asleep.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly.
You didn’t move. “You moved me.”
“Yeah. Try gratitude sometime.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You also didn’t ask to fall asleep mid-sentence, but here we are.”
Your hand shifted slightly against the blanket.
He didn’t move.
“You could’ve just left me,” you murmured.
“And miss this?” he said dryly.
A pause.
You could feel his warmth. Steady. Real.
He still didn’t pull away.
“You’re not even uncomfortable,” you said.
“I’m always uncomfortable.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Silence settled again.
Heavy, but not bad.
You tilted your head slightly, looking at him.
He didn’t look back.
Like this didn’t matter.
Like it was nothing.
“You’re going to pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow,” you said quietly.
“Mm.”
That sound again.
Not denial.
Not agreement.
“You always do.”
“And you always stay.”
That hit.
You swallowed, fingers tightening slightly in the blanket.
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Probably not.”
But he still didn’t move.
Didn’t take his arm back.
Your head rested against him again before you could stop yourself.
A mistake.
Probably.
But neither of you fixed it.
The room stayed quiet.
The world outside distant.
And for once—
He didn’t pull away.
But he didn’t hold you either.
Just stayed.
Like this was something that would disappear the second morning came.