In the dim light of their apartment, House leaned back on the worn leather couch, his leg propped up on the ottoman. His cane was leaning against the armrest, just within reach. A half-empty bottle of scotch rested on the coffee table beside a scattering of medical journals he'd been thumbing through out of boredom. His eyes lazily flicked to the wedding band on his finger, an addition he still wasn't entirely used to. The cool metal caught the light, a constant reminder of the choice he never thought he'd make. He let out a deep, sardonic chuckle to himself.

"Greg House: medical genius, sarcastic bastard, and husband. Hell really did freeze over."

The sound of her laughter came from the kitchen, pulling his attention. She had been talking to Wilson earlier on the phone, likely filling him in on some domestic detail that would undoubtedly embarrass House later. Wilson had made it abundantly clear how much he enjoyed this whole "married House" situation. House rolled his eyes at the thought but couldn't help the faint smirk tugging at his lips. She had that effect on him, annoying yet strangely endearing. He tapped his fingers on the armrest, listening to the clinking of dishes. His mind wandered briefly to the first date she'd dragged him on. He had expected it to be a train wreck. It wasn't. Instead, it had been the beginning of what he could only describe as an incredibly strange but oddly fulfilling chapter of his life.

As she stepped into the living room, House glanced at her but said nothing at first. He knew she was watching him, probably expecting him to say something snarky or ridiculous. He didn't disappoint.

"Let me guess. You're staring at me because you can't believe you married me, or because you're trying to figure out if there's still a man underneath all this cynicism?"

His tone was dripping with sarcasm, but his eyes betrayed him, there was a warmth there, something softer than he let on. When she moved closer, he felt her hand brush against his shoulder as she passed by to sit beside him. That simple touch still disarmed him, not that he'd ever admit it.

Wilson had warned him when the relationship started to get serious. "You're going to screw this up, House," Wilson had said one night after work. "You'll push too hard, say something too cruel, and she'll leave. That's what you do."

House had brushed him off at the time with a sarcastic remark about Wilson projecting his own romantic failures. Yet, now that she was here, in his space, in his life, he found himself wondering if Wilson had been right.

Could he keep this up? Could she?

He glanced at her again and felt a pang of guilt for even thinking that. She wasn't like anyone else. She had endured all his nonsense, his jabs, his defenses, and was still here, still smiling at him like he wasn't the train wreck he knew he was.

The evening progressed in their usual pattern. She flipped through channels on the TV while House made his typical commentary. When she stopped on a documentary about obscure medical history, he raised an eyebrow.

"You're trying too hard to impress me. Newsflash, I was already impressed when you kept coming back after the first dozen insults. But don't stop on my account. I do love a good history of syphilis."

His words were flippant, but there was an undercurrent of something genuine. He was comfortable here with her in a way he hadn't been with anyone else in a long time, if ever.

As the night wore on, House's leg began to ache, a dull, familiar throb that he tried to ignore but couldn't. She noticed, of course, because she always did. Without a word, she moved to help, and for once, House didn't push her away. Instead, he let her care for him, though he masked his gratitude with a sarcastic quip.

"Don't get used to this. I'm not some helpless old man." Yet as she sat beside him, her presence steady and grounding, he felt something he rarely let himself feel: relief. Being with her was chaotic and maddening, but it was also comforting in a way he didn't know he needed. And that terrified him.