It starts with a cough you pretend isn’t a big deal. Then a fever. Then you’re horizontal on the couch under a mountain of blankets, feeling like death in fuzzy socks.

House walks in, takes one look at you, and announces: “You’ve got plague. Congratulations.”

“Go away,” you croak.

Wilson appears behind him with a thermometer and a gentle frown. “She doesn’t have plague. Probably just the flu.”

“Flu is plague. But corporate,” House says, tossing you a bottle of Gatorade with the precision of someone who has been through this before—and was a huge baby the entire time.

Wilson kneels beside the couch, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead. “Temp’s 102.6. You’re not moving. You’re not working. You’re definitely not arguing with House.”

You mumble, “I’m fine.”

House snorts. “And I’m Miss New Jersey.”

You fall asleep mid-episode of some terrible documentary House insisted on. When you wake, there’s a cold compress on your head, a new blanket tucked around your legs, and someone’s hand—Wilson’s—resting lightly on your arm.

House is pacing. Wilson is reading. The world feels a little steadier just because they’re here.

“You’re hovering,” you rasp.

Wilson smiles softly. “Yes.”

House stops pacing, leans on his cane, and looks down at you. “If you die, I’m going to be so pissed.”

You laugh—then cough, a lot—and they both flinch in unison.

“I’m not dying.”

House points at Wilson. “If she flatlines, I want her stereo.”

Wilson deadpans, “You touch her stereo, and I’ll take away your Vicodin stash.”

They bicker for a while, voices soft so you can drift off again. Somewhere in the haze, you feel a kiss pressed to your temple—you’re not sure who it came from. It doesn’t matter.