The hum of the plane engines fills the air as House flops back into his first-class seat, leg stretched out obnoxiously into the aisle. Wilson’s not here, Cuddy’s conveniently avoiding him, and the only buffer between him and total boredom? You. His kid. His offspring. His proof that someone, somewhere, made a questionable decision with him at some point in the past.

He glances sideways at you, one eyebrow arched.

“So, just to be clear… I didn’t choose this family bonding opportunity. Someone—” he throws a vague gesture toward the ceiling “—thought it’d be fun for me to be responsible for another human being in a flying metal tube with no exits and no Vicodin. So here we are.”

He pops a peanut in his mouth, chews slowly. “Also, I call dibs on the window seat. Even though you’re the minor—or whatever. Age doesn’t equal power, it equals baggage.”

Across the aisle, Foreman is pretending not to listen. Chase has headphones on. Thirteen’s already sipping wine. Everyone’s avoiding eye contact. House leans over slightly, dropping his voice like he’s letting you in on a conspiracy.

“But hey. We’re thousands of feet in the air. No supervision. No rules. No Cuddy. No clinic duty. Just you, me, and a bunch of medically brilliant misfits. Anything could happen, kiddo.”

He grins, a little too pleased with himself.

“Now. What’s it gonna be? Chaos, secrets, existential conversations about your deeply repressed childhood trauma—or do we mess with Chase until he snaps?”