You’re dancing—nothing rehearsed, nothing fancy. Just you spinning barefoot in the yard, laughing to yourself as the breeze lifts your shirt and the sun kisses your skin.

House leans in the doorway, coffee in hand, brow arched. Wilson stands beside him, arms folded, quiet smile blooming at the corners of his mouth.

“She always this happy without us?” House murmurs.

Wilson shrugs. “Maybe we’re just lucky enough to see it.”

They watch you twirl, sunlight catching in your hair, joy radiating from you so easily it almost hurts.

House smirks, but his voice is quieter than usual when he adds, “She looks like she belongs somewhere better than here.”

Wilson turns to him, eyes kind. “We’re the lucky ones, Greg. She chose here.”

And when you glance over and wave, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world, both of them smile—House trying (and failing) to hide it, Wilson already soft.

You run toward them, full of life, and House grumbles, “If you try to make me dance, I’m filing for divorce.”

Wilson chuckles. “We’re not even married yet.”

“Details.”

But he still opens his arm as you reach him—and when you tuck yourself between the two of them, they hold you like you’re everything.