You should’ve left an hour ago.

The routine’s always been clear—arrive, undress, play your part, get dressed, take the envelope. No lingering. No questions. No complicated mornings.

But tonight, Gregory House was different from the moment you stepped inside. His jokes were fewer. His touch was slower. And when everything had settled into that heavy post-midnight stillness, he didn’t push you away.

Instead, he held you.

Chest to chest on the couch, his face buried against your collarbone, his arms loosely curled around your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight in case it scared you off. You felt his breath even out gradually, that subtle shift from guarded silence into vulnerable sleep.

You were about to move. You really were. But something about the way he exhaled—like this was the first time in years he’d let himself rest—stopped you cold.

So you stayed.