Cure- House, MD

chapter 20: inconvenient (finale)

"House!" I yell from the kitchen, my voice echoing through the house. "Where the hell did you put the coffee filters this time?"

From the living room, I hear the familiar shuffle of pages and the creak of his cane tapping the floor. "Did you try looking where you keep your Clozapine?" he calls back lazily, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I groan, slamming a cabinet door shut. "You've got about five seconds before I start brewing coffee with paper towels again."

He waves me off without looking up from his medical journal. "Relax, Sherlock. They're in the fridge."

I pause mid-step, blinking. "The fridge?"

"Behind the milk," he adds nonchalantly, turning a page as if this is completely normal behavior.

I yank open the refrigerator door, and sure enough, there they are—stuffed behind the milk carton like some absurd treasure hunt prize. I grab the box and march back into the living room, holding it up like evidence in court. "You're unbelievable. Stop hiding the coffee filters."

He glances up at me briefly, smirking. "You're addicted. I'm saving you from yourself."

"Addicted?!" I sputter, dropping the box onto the counter. "Coming from the guy who takes Vicodin like it's a multivitamin?"

"Touché," he says, pointing a finger at me before returning his attention to his journal.

I grumble under my breath as I get the coffee brewing, but a small smile tugs at my lips despite myself. We've been living together for a month now, and somehow, this chaotic routine feels more natural than I ever expected.

"You know," I call over my shoulder, "if you're going to sabotage my mornings, the least you can do is make breakfast once in a while."

"Cooking is for people who hate themselves," he replies dryly.

I roll my eyes, leaning against the counter as the smell of coffee fills the air. "How is it that I'm the one who moved into your house, but it feels like I'm taking care of you?"

"Because you're better at it," he says simply, his smirk audible even from across the room.

I grab my mug and join him on the couch, sitting on the opposite end with my legs tucked under me. He glances at me over the top of his glasses, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something softer in his eyes before he turns back to his reading.

I take a sip of my coffee, staring at House as he flips through his medical journal, completely absorbed. The sight of him, slouched on the couch with his glasses perched low on his nose, feels oddly... normal. Like this has been my life forever.

But it hasn't.

I think back to a month ago, the day I officially moved in. I didn't call him or give him a heads-up. I just showed up at his house with a U-Haul packed to the brim, a knot in my stomach, and no plan other than to unload my life into his.

I'll never forget the look on his face when he opened the door. For a split second, there was a flicker of something I couldn't quite place—maybe surprise, maybe amusement. But it quickly melted into his usual nonchalant smirk.

"Nice of you to RSVP," he said, leaning on his cane as he scanned the truck behind me. "What's the occasion? Running away from your responsibilities?"

I rolled my eyes, hitching my thumb toward the truck. "I'm moving in, remember? You told me to bring a box. I brought... all of them."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "And here I thought you were going to ease me into this nightmare."

"Are you going to help or just stand there judging my packing skills?" I shot back, crossing my arms.