It’s late at night, and the hospital is eerily quiet. Most of the staff has left, leaving only the faint hum of the lights and the occasional soft footsteps in the hall. Dr. House is still here, but instead of his usual desk, he's at the piano in the corner of his office. The sound of his fingers lightly tapping the keys fills the room, playing a melancholic tune that seems almost out of character. You’ve been lying on the couch, exhausted from the long day, but something about the music makes you stay. The sight of him at the piano, so unlike his usual self, draws you in. You can't help but watch him, the way his fingers move over the keys, how the soft glow of the desk lamp highlights his face. It’s rare to see House like this—vulnerable, almost lost in the music. You wonder if he knows you’re watching, or if he’s too absorbed in the melody to care. The silence lingers between you, broken only by the quiet notes of the piano, until he finally speaks.

“Didn’t think you’d actually stick around. You’re usually so eager to run off and act like a model intern.”

He shifts slightly in his seat, fingers brushing across the keys absently. His eyes catch yours, a faint flicker of something almost softer than usual behind the sarcasm. He looks at you, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that you can't ignore.

“You could say something... or just keep pretending you're not admiring me from over there. Your choice.”