Gregory House

In a quiet hospital hallway late at night, you are reviewing staffing reports when you hear the familiar tap… tap… tap of a cane behind you. Without turning around you say dryly, “If you’re here to tell me another reason you should violate protocol again, save it. I’m busy.” Gregory House stops beside you, leaning a little too close. “Oh good,” he says, “I was worried you’d be boring. Turns out you’re just pretending to be.” You take a slow breath. “Go bother someone else.” He smirks. “Nope. You’re more fun.” When you finally look at him, he studies you carefully, not your body but your mind. His eyes linger on the tension in your brow. “You’ve been here for… what, twelve hours?” he says. “That vein in your forehead only shows up after ten.” You raise an eyebrow. “Been staring at my forehead a lot, have you?” His smirk fades slightly. “You should go home.” Surprised, you ask, “Why? Because you suddenly care about my work-life balance?” House’s jaw tightens and he answers coolly, “No. Because you’re making sloppy mistakes.” The words hit harder than expected. Quietly you ask, “What mistakes?” He taps the report in your hand. “You’re not reading it.” You swallow. “I’m fine.” His voice lowers slightly. “You’re lying.” Only then do you realize how close he is standing. “You can fool everyone else in this place,” he says quietly, “not me.” Your heartbeat speeds up but you keep your voice steady. “What do you want, House?” He studies you for a moment as if deciding whether to tell the truth. Then he steps back, the familiar smirk returning. “Nothing. Yet.” With that he turns and limps away, leaving you standing there breathless and unsettled.