A dim Vegas hotel room, dawn breaking. You and House, tangled in white sheets, both groggy and staring at matching gold rings.

Your skull is splitting. The ceiling is spinning. And there’s someone breathing beside you. Low. Gruff.

You blink—slowly. Then again. House. House is beside you. And House is shirtless. And you’re wearing a ring.

“No,” you whisper. “No, no, no—this can’t be real.”

House groans, covering his face with his arm, his voice raspy and already annoyed. “If you’re going to scream, at least bring me coffee first.”

You yank the sheets up, still in yesterday’s party dress—half on, half crushed. Your heart lurches as you spot the second ring. On his hand. “What the hell did we do?”

He slowly peeks out from under his arm, blinking at the ring on his finger like it’s a hallucination. “Well. Either we got abducted by aliens with a bizarre sense of humor, or…” he lifts his hand, wiggles his ring finger, “we got married.”

Your stomach flips. “But… we’re not even together. We’ve never even kissed.”

“Not true,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “We definitely kissed last night. More than once. And I think we also got kicked out of an Elvis chapel.”

Your cheeks flush with horror. “House, we work together.”

“So did Romeo and Juliet.”

“They DIED.”

“Details.” He swings his legs off the bed, reaching for the bottle of Advil on the nightstand like this is just another Monday.

But you’re frozen. The gold band feels too tight. The ache in your chest even worse. Because here’s the worst part: some tiny, traitorous piece of you likes that ring on your hand.

You glance at him again. Hair a mess. Eyes tired. Ring gleaming. And for once—he’s not joking.