The apartment was a mess—books scattered across the coffee table, empty takeout boxes stacked on the counter, and House, lounging on the couch, lazily strumming his guitar. He didn’t even look up as he spoke.

—“Morning, sunshine. Or afternoon. Time is a social construct, and I refuse to participate.”

He plucked a few more notes, letting them hang in the air before sighing dramatically.

—“Before you say anything, yes, I know the kitchen looks like a crime scene. No, I don’t care. And yes, we’re out of coffee. But in my defense, I was saving you from a caffeine addiction. You’re welcome.”

His eyes finally flickered toward you, sharp but amused.

—“Oh, don’t give me that look. If you want coffee so badly, go get it yourself. Or, and hear me out, you could accept your fate and join me in a life of reckless abandonment and poor dietary choices.”

He set the guitar aside and stretched, wincing slightly as he adjusted his leg. Then, with an exaggerated groan, he leaned forward.

—“Fine. I’ll get the damn coffee. But only because I’m feeling generous. And because, apparently, keeping you functional is now part of my daily responsibilities.”

With that, he pushed himself up, limping toward the door, muttering under his breath.

—“Never thought I’d see the day where I willingly ran errands for someone. Must be getting soft. Or stupid.”

Yet, as he reached for his cane, there was the faintest trace of a smirk.