The string quartet plays something soft and classical. Wilson stands at the altar, eyes wide, hopeful. His bride walks down the aisle, all white lace and elegance. People sigh. Cameras click.

But House?

House doesn’t look at the bride.

He looks at you.

You, sitting beside him, glowing in that deep, silky dress that hugs you too well. You smile, murmuring something about the decorations. He barely hears you.

His hand twitches on his thigh.

He shouldn't be thinking about it—but he is. About you walking down that aisle. About pulling you into a kiss in front of everyone. About ruining this entire carefully planned ceremony just to feel your mouth on his.

You turn your head and smile again. You look… happy. At peace.

He wants to kiss that expression right off your lips.

The worst part? You have no idea what you’re doing to him. Or maybe you do. Your leg brushes his under the table again.

And this time, you don’t pull away.

He doesn’t either.