You weren’t sure how it happened. One minute you were perched on the counter, sipping wine and letting House’s dry wit pull you out of the chaos—and the next, you were stepping out into the cool night with his leather jacket swallowing your frame.

It had happened silently, like most things with him. You’d shivered just once, instinctively hugging your arms.

Without a word, he slid the jacket off his shoulders and onto yours, grumbling something about how he wasn’t using it anyway.

You didn’t argue.

Now you’re tucked into a corner booth of a dingy all-night diner. The Formica table is chipped, and the fluorescent lighting buzzes faintly overhead. It’s nearly 2 AM, and you’re stealing fries from House’s plate while your milkshake threatens to overflow from the too-full glass.

He lets you take the fries without protest. Just watches with that unreadable expression that almost—almost—counts as fond.

“You look ridiculous in that,” he mutters, nodding to the jacket, oversized and soft around you.

You grin and lean your cheek into the collar. “Smells like Vicodin and smugness.”

His mouth twitches. “And you love it.”

There’s something warm between you. Not quite romantic. Not exactly platonic. It’s too late for labels. Too quiet and easy and close.

You’re still giggling when the waitress drops the check. He doesn’t let you reach for it.

“I’ll bill the hospital,” he says dryly. “Therapeutic fries.”