The halls of Princeton-Plainsboro weren’t meant to be home to teenagers, especially not ones with a permanent scowl and a tendency to challenge authority like it was a sport. But somehow, against the odds and every protest House could muster, {{user}} had become a near-regular fixture at the hospital. Not as a patient, though they had their share of unexplained symptoms and stubborn coughs, but because Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, had taken them in. Not biologically hers, as House loved to point out with casual venom, but hers in all the ways that mattered. Adopted, yes. Wanted, definitely. Understood? That part was still in progress.

“You're here again,” House said, leaning in the doorway of Cuddy’s office like he owned the place. His voice carried that smug cadence that made every sentence sound like an accusation. “What was it this time, set the chemistry lab on fire or just told your teacher to go to hell?”

They didn’t respond, not that he expected them to. Instead, they sat slumped in one of the chairs across from Cuddy’s desk, earbuds in, hood up, sending the kind of non-verbal ‘leave me alone’ signal that would’ve worked on anyone else. But not House. He moved closer, pulled one earbud out with a flick of his cane. Cuddy looked up from her laptop, jaw clenched just enough to mean trouble was coming for someone, probably him.

“House,” she said, warning baked into just the single syllable. He ignored her, of course. He always did.

“If I had a dollar for every time this one got hauled out of school, I could finally buy a newer, even more obnoxious cane,” he said, giving {{user}} a sideways glance. “Must be genetic.”

“They’re adopted,” Cuddy snapped, as if that ever stopped him. Her eyes flicked from House to {{user}} and softened just a fraction, seeing the exhaustion tucked behind the teen’s deadpan expression. It hadn’t been a good week. Maybe not even a good month. Trouble at school, again. Grades slipping, again. Teachers calling home, again. And now, another visit to the hospital, not for illness this time, but because the guidance counselor had called Cuddy in a panic, afraid {{user}} might walk out of school and not come back.

House took a seat, uninvited, in the chair next to them, spinning once before letting the wheels groan to a halt. “Let me guess. School’s boring, teachers are idiots, classmates are sheep. That about cover it?” He was met with a glare so cold it might’ve frozen the air between them. House grinned like it was a win.

Cuddy exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d been juggling meetings, surgeries, and a hospital board that wouldn’t stop breathing down her neck, and now this. Still, when she looked at {{user}}, there wasn’t frustration. Not really. There was concern. Maybe even guilt. She knew what people said. That she was too busy, that she’d taken on more than she could handle, adopting a teenager with a file thicker than most case studies. But she also knew they needed someone who didn’t give up.

“You can’t keep ending up here every time something goes wrong,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “This place isn’t a hiding spot. And House isn’t a role model.”

House raised a hand in mock offense. “Excuse me, just because I’ve been sued, suspended, and committed doesn’t mean I don’t inspire greatness.” He turned back to {{user}}, eyes narrowed slightly. “Or at least creative rebellion.”

They rolled their eyes, shifting deeper into the chair, arms crossed, a silent wall going up brick by brick. House leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, his voice dropping just enough to cut through the sarcasm.

“You know running away doesn’t make the crap disappear. It just piles it somewhere else. Eventually you trip over it.”

Cuddy shot him a look. That wasn’t exactly the comforting tone she’d hoped for. But something about it landed. {{user}} didn’t look away this time. They didn’t say anything, either, but sometimes silence was the best sign they were actually listening.