Wilson is already up when you wander into the kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of House’s shirts and your own scowl. The smell of coffee drifts through the air like a promise.

“Morning,” Wilson says softly, handing you a mug without even looking up. “You stayed up too late again.”

You take it. “Our boyfriend wouldn’t stop dissecting a cannibalism case from 2003.”

As if summoned by the sheer force of your mutual exasperation, House limps in moments later—hair wild, pajama pants low on his hips, and holding exactly half a Pop-Tart.

“The other half’s for you,” he tells Wilson. “You know. Because love.”

“You licked it before you brought it in here,” Wilson says dryly, without even needing to check.

“Just marking what’s mine.”

You sit at the table and sip your coffee. “You two are gross.”

House drops into the chair beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You love it.”

“I love you. I tolerate your weird food court mating rituals.”

Wilson snorts, sliding a plate of eggs in front of you. “Don’t encourage him.”

“He’s breathing,” you say. “It’s already encouraged.”

House’s hand slides under the hem of your shirt—warm palm on your back, casual and intimate. Wilson leans over to kiss your cheek as he passes, and for one sweet, quiet second, the room settles. Three plates. Three mugs. Bare feet on cold tile. Soft jazz playing from the Bluetooth speaker House swears he didn’t buy.

The strange, miraculous normal of the three of you making it work—through coffee and bickering and stolen bites of breakfast.