You didn’t even remember driving there. Not really.

Somewhere between the silence of your apartment and the heaviness pressing on your chest, you’d ended up on his doorstep. Hair tangled, sweater sleeves too long, and your eyes—god, your eyes—red from crying. Not from a dramatic breakup, or a patient loss, or even anything that could be explained easily in medical terms.

It was loneliness. Sharp. Ache-like. Deep.

And you knew he’d be awake. Because he always was.

The door creaked open after just one knock. House stood there, barefoot in flannel pajama pants and a faded t-shirt, Vicodin bottle still loosely held in one hand, blue eyes narrowing as he took you in.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

Not for a long breath.

Then, very quietly, your voice cracked through the space between you. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to be alone.”

His expression didn’t soften—it never really did—but he stepped back and let you in, which, for him, said everything.

"You look like shit," he muttered, but his voice was soft. Not mocking. Not biting. Just... noticing.

For once, House didn’t run from it. His arms wrapped around you—awkward, hesitant, then tight. He didn’t joke. Didn’t insult. Just held you. And let you fall apart gently, safely, into him.