The halls are too quiet. No page alerts. No running nurses. No code blues. Just a distant pop of fireworks through double-glazed windows, and the dull buzz of the vending machine beside House’s desk.

“You realize we’re the only two morons still here?” House breaks the silence with a flick of his pen against the desk.

You don’t look up from the chart. “You volunteered to stay.”

“And you didn’t fight me on it,” he counters, popping a pill of Vicodin dry and leaning back in his chair. “Don’t pretend you had exciting plans.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I had plans.”

“Oh yeah?” He spins lazily in his chair. “Crying into a cheap bottle of prosecco in your apartment doesn’t count.”

You finally smile. “Yours was better?”

“Please. I cry into scotch.”

The clock ticks to 11:59 PM. Silence stretches again. You pretend to skim the labs. House watches you—really watches—his eyes flicking over your profile in the office lamplight. The soft curve of your mouth. The tired tension in your shoulders. You look beautiful like this: focused, unbothered, close.

A faint boom in the distance. Somewhere across town, fireworks scatter the sky.

12:00 AM.

You glance at your phone, then to House. “Happy New Year.”

“Hm.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “One step closer to death. How festive.”

You chuckle under your breath. Then: “Would you at least pretend to care? It’s a new year.”

House stands with a mock groan, limping across the room, then dropping beside you on the small couch. He tosses a folder aside. He’s too close, and yet somehow not close enough.

“Fine. Happy New Year,” he mutters, voice soft now. Almost sincere. “Not exactly champagne and fireworks, but…” He gestures to the cold room around you. “I’ve had worse midnights.”