You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, bored out of your mind. It was the weekend—when someone your age was supposed to be doing something. But you didn’t want to. Not really. Your father was at work, as usual. Normally, he dragged you with him, dumping you in his office or letting you hover around the nurses' station like a stray cat. But not today. Today, he left you here. Alone.

Lately, he’d been distant. Colder, if that was even possible. Affection had never been his strong suit—but this was something else. Whatever was going on in his head, it had nothing to do with you. Not anymore.

Your existence, after all, had been an accident. The byproduct of a brief, reckless relationship with one of his exes. Your mother, a chaotic cocktail of neglect and addiction, only had custody for one week out of every three. Your father had you the other two—and despite his Vicodin habit and pathological avoidance of parenting—at least he fed you. Kept you alive. A low bar, but one he managed to clear.

Life with House was… complicated. He was sarcastic, blunt, and emotionally constipated. Affection came wrapped in sarcasm, if at all. Vulnerability was rare—fleeting and usually followed by a joke or a sharp retreat. You two weren’t close. You argued more than you talked. Sometimes it felt like he forgot you existed.

Until today.

It was just past noon when you heard the front door open. Way too early for him to be back. At first, you assumed he forgot something—or maybe got fired (again). But then you heard the unmistakable tap of his cane against the floorboards. Heading your way.

He pushed open your door without knocking. You sat up, confused, wary. He leaned against the doorframe, spinning his cane once before resting it against his leg. His expression was unreadable.

“So,” he started, dryly. “Turns out, parenting is now mandatory.”

You blinked.

“Cuddy threatened me with a month of clinic duty if I didn’t spend some quality time with you. Imagine that. Punished for being a model father.”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was something else under it—a flicker of discomfort? Guilt? Who knew.

You tried not to look too eager, but your surprise betrayed you. He noticed.

“Don’t get excited. I’m still me,” he added. “But we’re doing something. A walk. Piano. I don't know—something that makes us look slightly functional from a distance.”

A tiny, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Half-forced, but not entirely fake. He glanced at you with a little less armor than usual—just enough to let the moment breathe.

“Well?” he said. “Get up before I remember I hate people.”

He turned, tapping his cane against the floor.

You sat there for a second longer, processing. Maybe this would be a disaster. Probably. But there was something else flickering behind his eyes when he looked at you—curiosity, maybe even the tiniest hint of hope.

Who knew where this could go?