The sound of the city outside is muffled by the walls of House’s apartment. After the chaos of the gala, everything feels oddly quiet. You’re sitting on the edge of his bathtub, the soft scent of his aftershave lingering in the air, and he stands before you, carefully removing the last traces of your makeup.

His hands are steady, fingers brushing against your skin, surprisingly gentle for a man who often hides behind sarcasm. You catch his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his eyes softening as he focuses on the task at hand. There's an intimacy to the moment that feels so domestic—so real—that you almost forget where you are.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, "you look better without all this." He motions toward your makeup, his thumb brushing against your cheek, erasing the last of it. "More... yourself."

The air between you is thick with a tenderness neither of you knows how to handle. His touch lingers, just for a moment, and you feel something shift in the space around you—something that’s been there, maybe for longer than either of you wants to admit.