House’s apartment — late evening. You’re sprawled on the couch together. TV playing low. Vicodin untouched. No sarcasm. Just you and him.

You don’t remember when it started — your fingers in his hair. Maybe sometime after the second hour of silence. Maybe when his eyes stopped flicking to the clock, to his cane, to the bottle.

Maybe when he let himself exhale, body angled toward you, head tipped in your lap like it was the most casual thing in the world.

He didn’t protest. He never does, not with you.

You comb through his messy, soft strands — slow, rhythmic movements that even he can’t out-stubborn. His breathing evens out. One arm tucked beneath his cheek. The other half-draped around your thigh, fingers twitching like he's trying not to hold on.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered earlier, voice already sinking into the quiet. “I’m not a damn cat.”

But that was thirty minutes ago. Now? Now he's asleep.

The lines in his face have finally let go. No scowl. No mask. No pain — or at least, less of it.

You pause, fingers still curled in his hair. You’ve seen House focused. You’ve seen him angry. But this? This is rare. And you feel it — the weight of trust.

You shift a little, careful not to wake him. He sighs softly and curls in closer.

Maybe he’s not used to this. But he wants to be.