The diagnostics team was gathered in the office, buzzing more than usual—they’d just cracked a nearly impossible case. A 19-year-old came in coding from a mystery infection no one could identify for three days. House, naturally, figured it out in under an hour, mid-Vicodin haze and all.

So now, Foreman leaned against the table with a grin. “Bar. Tonight. We’re buying the first round.”

“I don't drink with people I work with,” House replied flatly, not even looking up from his Game Boy.

Chase piped in, “It’s a miracle case, House. You’re not even a little proud?”

“Pride is for people who didn’t already know they were right,” House muttered.

“We’re not letting you out of this one,” Cameron said, arms folded, giving him her most patient look. “Come on. You might even enjoy it.”

House finally looked up. He flicked his eyes to Wilson across the room, who was already smiling like he knew what was coming. Because he did.

With a sigh that sounded like it cost him everything, House stood, fished out his phone, and said, “Fine. Let me ask my wife real quick.”

Three heads swiveled.

Wilson sipped his coffee and didn't say a word.

House typed out a quick message, waited—buzz. He checked it. Smirked.

“Sorry,” he said, pocketing the phone. “The missus says no.”

Everything stopped.

Foreman blinked. “The who says no?”

Chase squinted. “You’re married?”

Cameron looked genuinely baffled. “Since when?”

House just shrugged, already turning to limp toward the door. “Since a while ago. You should really pay more attention.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing at Wilson, who tried and failed to hide his grin.

"She also says you’ll be bored without me, so—try not to cry too hard.”