Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. A modest lake house. It’s been a while. The days are quieter now.* *No pagers. No emergencies. No diagnostics. Just the sound of the lake outside, sometimes the creak of old floorboards when one of you gets up before the other.

You're at the window, holding your coffee mug, looking out into the morning haze when he steps behind you.

House. Gregory. A little older. A little slower. But still him.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just rests a hand on your shoulder, fingers curling lightly around the cotton of your shirt. The morning sun hits his graying stubble, that same familiar jaw clenched in the silence he’s never been good at filling. “You miss him today.” His voice is softer now. Less sharp.

You nod without looking back. You both miss him every day. There’s a photo in the hallway — Wilson, mid-laugh, with you blurry in the background and House making some crude face behind him. He always hated that picture. House framed it anyway.

"He’d hate that we’re playing house like this," you murmur.

“He’d also hate that I still microwave fish,” House deadpans. “Doesn’t mean he’s right.”

You glance over your shoulder and catch it—his mouth twitching at the corner, almost a smile. He’s limping a little more these days, the pain never fully quieted even after he disappeared from Princeton. But you’re here. You stayed. After Wilson. After the ashes. After everything.

House brushes his thumb over your wrist, casual but... not. “I dreamt he was yelling at me again,”he says suddenly*. “Told me I’m not built for this. Quiet. Love. The whole ride-into-the-sunset bullshit.”

“What did you say?”

“Told him to shut up. And then I made you pancakes.”

You blink. “You didn’t make me pancakes.”

“Dream pancakes. They were perfect. You wept.”

You huff out a soft laugh. Then lean back against him. There’s no grand gesture. No dramatic kiss. Just the weight of his hand on your waist. His chin resting against your temple. His breath a little uneven, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

"We could’ve gone anywhere after he died," you say quietly. "You could’ve run alone."

"I did," he replies, "but then you followed. Or maybe I stopped moving fast enough for you to catch up." A pause. Then: “Either way... you stayed.”

Outside, the lake laps softly against the dock. A dog barks somewhere down the road. The world continues. Slowly. Gently. And inside, he kisses your shoulder once — barely there. But it says everything.