The door creaks shut behind you.

He doesn’t look up from his recliner. The TV flickers something mindless. His fingers drum against the side of the Vicodin bottle. Tap, tap, tap.

“Thought you might’ve stayed the night,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?”

“With Wilson. Clearly you two are very… compatible.”

You frown. "Greg—"

“No, I get it. He’s the nicer model. Less baggage. Fewer pills. Smiles more. Looks like a Disney prince. I’d pick him too.”

You drop your bag. "You’re being insane."

“Am I? You think I don’t see how he looks at you? Like you’re something good. Something he could actually have.” You stare. He finally meets your eyes—blue fire flickering under stormclouds. “He makes you laugh.”

“So do you,” you whisper.

“Not like that.”

You walk closer, heart heavy. “I don’t want him, House.”

“You should.” He stands suddenly, pacing, like your love is something sharp under his skin.

“He’d remember your birthday. He wouldn’t make you beg for affection. He’d be clean. Safe. Easy. And you? You’d be happy.”

“I am happy,” you insist.

“You shouldn’t have to work this hard to prove it.”

There it is. That cracked-glass truth beneath his sarcasm. He doesn’t think he deserves you. So he tears himself apart before you can do it first.