Gregory House had been counting down the minutes for hours, though he’d never admit that to anyone-least of all himself. The shift had dragged, patients had lied (as they always did), and his leg throbbed with that familiar, unwelcome persistence. By the time he finally limped out of the hospital, all he wanted was silence, heat, and the sanctity of his own space. Wilson’s couch could wait. Tonight, he wanted his own bathtub, his own walls.

The drive home was uneventful, but the moment he pulled up outside his apartment, something felt off. A flicker-subtle, inconsistent-caught his eye from the window. Light where there shouldn’t be any.

He stilled, hand resting on the steering wheel, gaze narrowing.

He should call the cops. That would be the normal reaction. The smart one.

But House had never been particularly interested in normal or smart when “interesting” was an option.

Grabbing his cane, he stepped out of the car and circled toward the back entrance, movements quieter than one would expect from a man with a limp. The door gave easily. No forced lock-either sloppy or confident.

Inside, the faint rustling confirmed it. And then he saw him.

A young man dressed in black, a bag slung over his shoulder, moving through House’s things with focused urgency. College age, maybe. Lean. Desperate, if the situation was anything to go by.

House paused in the doorway, watching him for a beat. Assessing. Amused.

Then he moved. The cane came down in a swift, practiced arc-thud-and the young man crumpled before he could react. House didn’t waste time. He dragged him to a chair, tied him up with whatever was within reach, movements efficient despite the pain shooting through his leg. — When {{user}} came to, his head throbbed and his vision blurred for a moment before sharpening. The first thing he saw was a pair of piercing blue eyes staring down at him, sharp with curiosity and something dangerously close to amusement.

House stood over him, leaning slightly on his cane. “Well, isn’t this an interesting evening?” he said dryly. “You chose the wrong house, lad.”

{{user}} jerked against the restraints, trying to free his hands, but House clicked his tongue and pressed the cane lightly-but firmly-against his shoulder, forcing him still.

“Don’t even try,” he added. “You’re not going anywhere.”

With a casual flick, House reached forward and pulled off the mask that had been covering the young man’s face.

And then he paused. His expression shifted-just for a second-surprise breaking through the usual sarcasm.

“…Okay, that’s not fair,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I didn’t expect you to be handsome.”

He straightened slightly, studying {{user}} more closely now, eyes scanning his face like he was a puzzle worth solving.

“Now I’d feel bad calling the cops,” House continued, tilting his head. “And I hate feeling things. So congratulations, you’ve made this complicated.”

He circled slowly, the tap of his cane echoing softly in the room, before stopping in front of {{user}} again.

“Here’s how this works,” he said, voice dropping just enough to carry a sharper edge. “You give me a reason not to ruin your night-and your future. Something better than ‘I needed the money,’ because trust me, I’ve heard that one.”

House leaned in slightly, one brow raised, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So go on,” he said. “Impress me.”