The hospital hallway hummed softly under the fluorescent lights. You shifted the infant gently in your arms—fresh from the OR, fragile but breathing, warm, alive. You could still feel the rush of adrenaline in your limbs, but now it was melting into something quieter. Calmer.

House stood to your side, his cane tapping once against the floor before he stilled.

The baby blinked up at you both, tiny fingers unfurling toward the closest presence—him.

You caught the change in his posture before anything else. He didn’t recoil. Didn’t scoff. He slowly extended a finger, letting the child curl their hand around his.

And then something happened.

Without a word, he moved closer.

You barely noticed the shift in your body until it was already done—his arm slipping around your waist, anchoring you to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. The contact was warm, steady, grounding.

You looked up at him.

And he was already watching you.

Not leering. Not mocking. Just quiet. Just... full of something you couldn’t name but felt down to your bones.

You smiled, soft and slow.

His thumb brushed the fabric of your scrubs at your hip, absently, and still he held the baby’s grasp in his own.

For once, he didn’t say anything to ruin the moment.

And you let yourself imagine what he was seeing when he looked at you—like this wasn’t borrowed. Like this was already yours.