"You're lucky I didn't call Cuddy," I warn.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Yeah, because Cuddy would've tucked me in so nicely."
"Keep it up," I say, turning toward the door. "Next time, I'm bringing something to really wake you up."
"Promises, promises," he calls after me, his voice laced with amusement.
I stop halfway to the door, turning back to face him. "Want to ride to the hospital with me, or are you planning on spending the day wallowing in your mess?"
House smirks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and grabbing his cane. "You're eager to get me there because you need me. Admit it."
"Sure," I reply dryly. "Can't live without your sunny disposition and unparalleled charm."
Ignoring him, I walk back and sit down on the edge of his bed, my hands brushing the rumpled sheets. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything as he moves to grab a clean-ish shirt from a nearby chair.
As he starts to get dressed, I glance around the room, taking in the chaos—the half-empty water bottles on the floor, the stacks of books on every available surface, the socks that have clearly given up on ever finding their pairs.
"When I move in," I start, running a finger across the dusty nightstand, "this place is going to be spotless. I'm talking floors you can eat off of."
He pulls his shirt over his head, his voice muffled as he replies, "Sounds miserable."
"Sounds necessary," I counter, gesturing to a plate balanced precariously on top of a stack of magazines. "Is that from last week?"
He glances at the plate, shrugging nonchalantly. "Maybe. Adds character."
I give him a pointed look. "It adds bacteria."
House grins, grabbing his jacket and cane. "You're really making this whole 'roommate' thing sound thrilling, Moss. Can't wait to have my every move scrutinized."
I roll my eyes, standing up as he adjusts the collar of his jacket. "You're going to thank me when you can actually find your bed without stepping on something questionable."
"Doubt it," he quips, heading for the door. "But if it means you'll stop nagging me, I might let you throw out one sock. Just one."
As we head toward the door, House leans on his cane and throws me a sideways glance. "Speaking of that, when are you actually moving in? Or is this one of those 'maybe someday' commitments you'll drag out until the apocalypse?"
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Haven't decided yet."
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Of course you haven't. Here's an idea—bring a box by today. Just one. Because if you don't, you'll overthink it, procrastinate, and then convince yourself it's a terrible idea."
I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms. "I'm not bringing anything into this place until it's clean."
"Clean," he repeats, his tone dripping with mockery. "That's your big excuse? Moss, if I wanted spotless, I wouldn't be asking you to move in."
I give him a pointed look. "You're going to need to scrub this entire place down if you think I'm living here. Start with that thing growing in the corner of your kitchen."
He smirks, leaning closer. "And here I thought you wanted me for my charming personality."
I shake my head, already regretting this decision and yet completely unwilling to back out. "I'm serious, House. No clean house, no boxes."