You wake to the smell of something suspicious.

Not the sweet, domestic kind of suspicious—like fresh muffins or pancakes or maybe vanilla. No, this is... charred. Aggressively so. You sit up slowly, sheets tangled around your legs, hair a mess, lips still faintly swollen from last night’s decisions.

The apartment is unusually quiet, except for the occasional clang of a pan and a muttered, “Son of a—”

You pull on his shirt—hanging off your frame like it belongs there—and pad into the kitchen.

There he is.

Gregory House.

Scruffy. Barefoot. In a crumpled T-shirt that definitely hadn’t seen daylight in a few years. He’s holding a spatula like it personally offended him, staring down at what might have once been eggs before they met a tragic, smoky demise.

When he notices you in the doorway, he clears his throat and gestures toward the horror on the plate.

“Behold. Culinary excellence.”

You lean against the counter, lips twitching. “Is that toast... or a crime scene?”

“Carbonized artisanal brioche,” he deadpans. “I Googled it.”

You watch as he awkwardly nudges an unrecognizable pile of something toward the plate. It slides off the spatula with a wet flop. You can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and startled even to your own ears.

House looks at you like that’s the real victory.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “Thought I’d try... I don’t know. Feeding the stray I brought home.” he mutters, finally looking at you—blue eyes just a little vulnerable under all that sarcasm, “I never said I was good boyfriend material. Just that I’m persistent.”