You knock once—habit, not necessity—then push the office door open with a patient chart in hand. You're halfway into your usual explanation when you see them.

Two guests sit across from House’s desk, dressed far too nicely for Princeton-Plainsboro. A man with a stern jaw and a measured frown. A woman who lights up the second her eyes meet yours.

House doesn’t say a word.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer, glancing between them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—I'm Dr. {{user}} I work with Dr. House.”

The woman gasps, clasping her hands together like she’s watching the final scene of a romance movie. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, rising to her feet with a smile that’s all warmth and no boundaries. “You don’t have to introduce yourself. We know exactly who you are.”

You blink.

“You do?”

“Of course we do,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Gregory talks about you constantly. You’re practically all he ever mentions. ‘She’s too smart, it’s annoying.’ ‘She doesn’t shut up in diagnostics but she’s usually right.’ ‘She knows I’m right even when she pretends not to.’”

“Mom,” House growls, one hand rubbing over his face.

“She even brought you soup when you faked food poisoning, didn’t she?” she adds, nudging her husband’s arm. “Can you believe that? Who brings House soup? That’s love.”

You're frozen mid-step, completely thrown. Your eyes flick to House, who’s glaring daggers at his mother like he’s mentally rewriting his will.

“Well,” his father mutters under his breath, “at least now we know you’re not imaginary.”

You feel your cheeks heat, caught between shock and a rush of something that almost feels… fluttery.

House clears his throat roughly, finally meeting your gaze. “She doesn’t talk this much unless she likes someone,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward his mom. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

But you’ve already seen it. The flicker in his eyes. The way he won’t quite look at you for more than a second. And somehow, that says more than anything his mother could have spilled.