The ballroom glittered with polished marble and champagne flutes, the air heavy with the clinking of glasses, whispered hospital politics, and the occasional forced laugh. The Princeton-Plainsboro Charity Gala always brought out the donors—and the egos.

You hadn’t expected House to show. Not in a tux. Not clean-shaven. And definitely not as your last-minute date.

But he was there.

Standing near the grand staircase, bow tie undone just enough to look deliberate, blue eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t care less—until they found you.

You’d felt the moment you became his focus. Like the hum in the air shifted.

And then he moved.

No cane. No limp. Each step slow, deliberate, composed. As if he’d rehearsed walking just for tonight. As if pretending not to be in pain somehow made the illusion real.

He made it halfway to you before you realized your mouth was slightly open.

You caught yourself. Blinked.

And then smiled.

“Where’s your cane?” you asked as he reached you, voice low but full of something… warmer than teasing.

“Misplaced it,” he murmured. “Thought it might trip up my date.”

Your brow lifted. “So you’re walking on sheer stubbornness?”

“On adrenaline,” he said, eyes flicking down to the soft line of your dress, then back up. “And a very effective distraction.”

You could tell it hurt. Behind the small twitches in his jaw, the rare stillness of his hand—but he hid it like it was a badge of honor.

He offered you his arm.

And when you took it, he walked just a little taller.

Like pain didn’t matter. Like being next to you erased it.