The case had wrapped early.

A strange infection, misdiagnosed twice, until you and House stepped in like a hurricane of sarcasm and precision. The local hospital owed you both drinks—and a break. Which is how you ended up here, barefoot in the sand, with the sun warming every inch of your skin.

You stretch out on a striped towel, sunglasses shielding your eyes, bikini top catching glints of sunlight. Your shoulders glow gold with salt and warmth, skin kissed bronze and sea-slick from an earlier swim.

A few feet away, House is slouched in a folding chair he swiped from the hotel balcony, his cane half-buried in the sand, a worn paperback in his lap.

He’s wearing—God help you—a faded Hawaiian shirt over black swim trunks, unbuttoned, his chest catching soft light.

And he’s actually smiling.

“You look ridiculous,” you murmur, not lifting your head.

“You’re one to talk. You look like a human solar panel,” he shoots back, turning a page.

You grin beneath your sunglasses.

“I’m multitasking. Vitamin D and inner peace.”

House hums. “You’re just trying to get tan enough that the interns shut up about you being pale.”

“Jealous?” you say lazily.

He glances at you—just a flick of his eyes over the top of his book. “Of the interns? Always.”

You toss a shell at him. He doesn’t flinch.

The conversation slows again. The ocean hums its lullaby. For a long stretch, there’s no sound but the waves, the distant laughter of kids down the shore, and the soft rustle of pages turning in his lap.

You sigh, content. “We should work cases by the beach more often.”

House smirks, not looking up. “Only if they come with half-naked colleagues and sunsets.”

You laugh. Loud, bright, unfiltered.

And for a moment, the way his eyes linger on you—just barely, just enough—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’d stay like this forever if you asked.