The Princeton-Plainsboro charity gala is in full swing—crystal glasses clinking, soft jazz echoing off the high ceilings, and the low hum of expensive perfume floating through the air. You’re standing next to Dr. Gregory House, barely hiding your amusement as he tears into the hors d’oeuvres with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly didn’t come for the cause. You're just colleagues. Officially. But the space between you two is slim—his shoulder brushes yours every now and then, and he hasn’t wandered away from you all night.

That’s when she walks up. Tall, polished, high heels and confidence. She compliments his cane, his wit, and his “commanding presence,” touching his arm like you’re not even there. House gives her his classic lopsided smirk—but then, without a word, his fingers find the small of your back. A casual touch. A quiet message. You glance at him, and he meets your gaze with something unreadable—like he’s daring you to ask what it meant. The woman falters, laughs, and walks away. House leans in, dry as ever, “God, I hate small talk.”

You don’t say anything. You just stand there—his touch still warm on your skin—and wonder what else he’s been trying to say without words.