The sound of the door creaking open was barely audible over the rustle of papers in Wilson’s hands.

He didn’t look up—he didn’t have to.

“You’re early,” he said, marking a page in a thick patient file. “What is it this time? Another medical mystery or just out of mints in your own office?”

House didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the soft clunk of his cane leaning against the wall followed, and a second later the familiar whump of his body collapsing onto the couch.

“I’m thinking,” House finally said, mouth already full of stolen mints. “Deep, profound, diagnostic thoughts. The kind that need leather furniture and quiet judgmental company.”

Wilson gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” House said, grabbing a throw pillow and sticking it under his head. “Your silence is always so loud. It’s like married life, minus the paperwork and sex.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even pretending to care if someone walks in on this weird domestic situation anymore, are you?”

House shrugged. “Let them walk in. Let them see the truth. Let the world tremble under the weight of our cohabitating banter.”

Outside the office, Thirteen passed by with a clipboard and paused. She turned to Foreman, who was reviewing labs on his tablet.

“They’re nesting again.”

Foreman didn’t look up. “Just keep walking.”

Back inside, House was now flipping through one of Wilson’s medical journals, upside-down.

“You know, this article is fascinating,” he muttered. “Not the content. Just the fact that someone thought it was worth publishing.”

“Put that down,” Wilson said, snatching it from him without looking. “And no, you can’t rewrite the margins with your theories about how lupus is just overachieving mono.”

House smirked and tossed another mint into his mouth.

“Admit it,” he said, voice smug as ever. “You missed me when I wasn’t here.”

Wilson didn’t say anything.

But he did slide the candy dish a little closer to the couch before returning to his notes.