Disclaimer: Greg and Stacy do not belong to me, they are the amazing creations of David Shore.

The day of her discharge had arrived. The hospital room that had been her home for the past few days now felt strangely empty, stripped of its temporary comfort. Stacy Barrett stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the lapels of her sharp navy suit. It was a familiar armor, a reminder of the composed, capable woman she used to be—before everything in her life unraveled.

Billy squirmed in her arms, his tiny face peeking out from beneath the soft blanket. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before hoisting the duffel bag that held her belongings over one shoulder.

"Ready to go, sweetheart?" she whispered to Billy, though she wasn't sure if she was speaking to him or herself.

In the corridor, Lisa Cuddy and James Wilson were waiting to see her off.

"You sure you've got everything?" Cuddy asked, concern etched on her face.

"I've got everything," Stacy assured her, smiling faintly. "Thank you for... everything. For being there."

Wilson gave her a soft smile, his usual warmth tinged with worry. "Don't be a stranger, Stacy. If you need anything—anything at all—you call us, okay?"

"I will," she said, though her tone wasn't entirely convincing.

As she turned to head toward the elevator, she caught sight of Greg House leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway. His cane tapped softly against the floor, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment, time seemed to stretch between them.

He didn't move toward her, didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Stacy took a deep breath, letting her eyes linger on him one last time. She forced a smile, her heart aching as she took in the familiar planes of his face—the face she had loved so fiercely.

"Goodbye, Greg," she said softly, more to herself than to him.

He said nothing.

Her tiny apartment felt even smaller now with the addition of a newborn. The first week at home was a blur of sleepless nights, endless feedings, and the strange, overwhelming sense of isolation that came with being alone with a new baby. Stacy was exhausted, her energy sapped by the constant demands of motherhood.

Billy cried often, but when he wasn't crying, he stared at her with those impossibly blue eyes that reminded her so much of Greg.

She told herself she didn't miss him. But late at night, when Billy finally fell asleep and the silence pressed in around her, she couldn't deny the truth. She missed him.

Her mind occasionally drifted to Mark, guilt and pain coursing through her as she remembers the way she hurt him, and how complicated her life became since Greg's leg.

Exactly one week after leaving the hospital, Stacy was pacing the small living room, rocking Billy in her arms and humming softly to calm him. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a knock sounded at the door.

Her heart skipped as she approached the door, peering through the peephole. She froze.

It was Greg.

Swallowing hard, Stacy unlocked the door and opened it. There he stood, looking as disheveled and self-assured as ever, his cane in hand and a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"Greg," she said, her voice filled with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come by and see if the kid's still alive," he quipped, though there was a softness in his tone that betrayed his sarcasm.

Before she could respond, Billy let out a loud cry, his wails echoing through the tiny apartment. Greg lets himself him, tossing his cane on the small couch and takes Billy in his arms. After a while, Billy's cries soften and eventually stop.

"Looks like he remembers me," House said, his smirk widening.

The room was finally quiet, save for the soft hum of the space heater and the faint creak of the crib as Billy shifted in his sleep. Greg House had just placed the baby down, his large hands oddly gentle as he adjusted the blanket around his tiny son.

Straightening up, House leaned on his cane and let his eyes wander around the small apartment. The space was almost painfully sparse: a single bed pushed against the wall, two battered suitcases serving as a makeshift closet, a plastic table with a few scattered television, no signs of comfort or indulgence, just the barest essentials.

House frowned, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned and made his way back to the table, easing himself into one of the flimsy chairs.

"You want coffee?" Stacy asked, standing near the counter with a jar of instant coffee in her hand. She looked at him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

House arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess—fancy, gourmet instant coffee?"

She snorted softly, shaking her head. "No. The cheapest one on the shelf."

He smirked faintly, but it faded as his eyes returned to her. She moved with a weariness that he recognized all too well. Her suit, as sharp as it looked on her, hung a little looser on her frame, and the faint circles under her eyes betrayed just how little sleep she'd been getting.

"You're running on fumes, Stacy," he said matter-of-factly, resting his cane against the table.

"Yeah, well, sleep's overrated," she replied, her voice tinged with dry humor as she filled the kettle and set it to boil.

They fell into a silence that felt heavier than it should have. House tapped his fingers against the table, his gaze drifting back to the crib where Billy lay.

"You've been doing all of this on your own," he said suddenly.

Stacy glanced over at him, her hand stilling on the counter. "I'm managing," she said, her tone light but evasive.

"Doesn't look like it," he replied bluntly, gesturing around the room.

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, she didn't respond. Then she sighed, leaning against the counter. "It's not easy, Greg. But I'm doing what I can."

House studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You didn't have to do it alone," he said, his voice softer now.

Stacy met his eyes, her own guarded. "Didn't I? You made it pretty clear at the hospital that this wasn't what you wanted."

He didn't deny it, but neither did he look away. "Maybe I was wrong."

Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. "What do you mean?"

House shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping restlessly against his cane. "I thought I was doing the noble thing—pushing you away so you could have a life without me screwing it up. But looking at this..." He gestured vaguely around the room. "Maybe I was just being an idiot."

Stacy blinked, caught off guard by his admission. "Greg..."

He stood abruptly, his cane clinking against the floor as he crossed the small space between them. She straightened, her pulse quickening as he stopped just a few feet away, his sharp blue eyes locked on hers.

"I'm not saying I'm going to magically become father of the year," he said, his tone laced with his usual dry humor, but there was a seriousness beneath it. "But maybe I don't completely suck at this."

He glanced toward the crib, where Billy lay peacefully, his tiny hand curled around the edge of the blanket.

"You're good with him," Stacy said quietly, her voice tinged with something she couldn't quite name.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't know me well enough to be disappointed yet," House quipped. Then, his gaze flicked back to hers, and his smirk faded.

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Then, without warning, House reached out, his thumb brushing lightly against her lower lip. The touch was so brief, so subtle, that Stacy almost thought she imagined it.

"You deserve better than this," he said, his voice low, but his meaning was clear.

Stacy swallowed hard, her eyes searching his. "And what about you? What do you deserve?"

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's a question for another day."

She let out a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. Instead, she simply nodded, the weight of his words settling over her like a blanket.

House stepped back, his hand dropping to his side. "You've got coffee to make, and I've got a kid to check on," he said, his tone shifting back to his usual deflection.

But as he turned toward the crib, Stacy saw the flicker of something in his eyes—a promise, perhaps, or at least the beginning of one. And for the first time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could figure this out together.

(PLS LET ME KNOW IF YOU LIKED THIS CHAPTER AND IF I SHOULD CHANGE/ADD ANYTHING.. LYY 3)