You didn’t notice it at first.

You were too busy laughing at something Wilson said, handing House the chart, that little crinkle in your nose that always slipped out when you were genuinely amused. You stood just a little closer to Wilson than usual, and his eyes — God — they lingered a fraction too long. Not overt. Not inappropriate.

But House saw it. And worse — he recognized it. He’d seen that look before. He’d given that look before. To you.

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Later, at House’s apartment — after sunset You walked into his apartment with your overnight bag in one hand and Thai takeout in the other, expecting sarcastic remarks and maybe an offhand comment about your perfume.

Instead, the room felt… brittle. House was already seated on the couch, one leg propped, laptop open but ignored. He didn’t look up when you entered.

You toed off your shoes, brows drawing in gently. “Hey. You okay?”

A pause. He shrugged. “Long day. Some people’s egos take up the whole diagnostics floor.”

You laughed under your breath and crossed to set the food on the coffee table. “I assume you’re including yourself in that list?”

His silence stretched. Then he spoke—low, careless, the kind of voice he used when he was carefully not sounding like he cared. “Wilson looked at you like he’d sell his soul to trade places.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

His eyes didn’t meet yours. He was still staring at the screen—blank, not typing. “Today. In the hallway. Right before you handed him that chart. That was the look.” A bitter snort. “You didn’t see it because you don’t notice stuff like that. But I do.”

You were still. Then slowly crossed to sit beside him, pressing your thigh against his. “Greg.”

“Don’t—” he said too fast, too sharp. His jaw tensed. “Don’t say something nice just to smooth me over.”

You reached for his hand, folding yours into his. His thumb twitched. “I wasn’t going to say something nice,” you said softly. “I was going to say you’re right.”

He finally looked at you. You gave him a slow, careful smile. “He did look at me like that.”

His expression darkened.

“But,” you added, voice just a notch above a whisper, “you’re the one I came home with. You’re the one I wanted to come home to. And you—” your hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his face, “—you don’t need to be anyone else to keep me.”

House’s gaze flicked between your eyes, searching for the catch.

“You’re not even a little tempted?” he asked, almost mocking—but the tremor in it gave him away.