It wasn’t intentional. Well, not entirely.

You were running late that morning. Your hair was still damp, your phone alarm had betrayed you twice, and the only clean shirt you could find in your drawer—soft, black, slightly oversized—had that worn-in feel that made you pause mid-rush with a guilty smile.

It was his.

Gregory House’s old band tee, tossed into your laundry weeks ago after some late-night crash on his couch. He’d never asked for it back. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he didn’t.

Now it was under your white coat, tucked casually into your slacks, and you’d almost forgotten about it—until he walked into the diagnostics room and froze.

His eyes flicked down as you reached up to grab a chart, coat shifting just enough to reveal the edge of the faded logo beneath. He tilted his head. Smirked.

“Nice shirt.”