The ballroom is glittering—strands of lights tangled in crystal chandeliers, the hum of polite conversations floating under clinks of champagne. The annual Princeton-Plainsboro charity gala is, for once, not about diagnostics, death, or sarcasm. It’s about sparkle. Music. A rare excuse for everyone to look clean and devastating.

You’re practically glowing. In your element. Dressed up, flushed from laughter and wine, you radiate something light and infectious—something even House can’t fully ignore.

He’s leaning against a wall, cane in hand, wearing his reluctant tux like it’s a punishment and watching the dance floor like it personally wronged him.

Then the band starts a cover of a song you love.

You don’t ask. You just grab his hand.

“Oh no,” he mutters as you pull him in, “This is coercion. There are laws—”

“Shut up and dance, House.”

You tug him onto the edge of the floor, your arms wrapping around his stiff frame as if this is the most natural thing in the world. You sway, sing softly into his shoulder. He doesn’t move at first—but you feel the moment he exhales, the way his body shifts closer. One of his hands rests loosely on your waist. His other is still on his cane, but it lowers slightly.

"You know this counts as physical therapy," He grumbles something unintelligible—but then you catch it. "You'll pay for it"