You’d never imagined House saying yes to a pottery date. Let alone inviting you to one. But when Wilson gifted him two non-refundable passes to “Pottery & Pinot: Clay and Wine Night,” House grumbled for 24 hours straight… and then showed up at your office with a ticket in hand and a half-smirk.

“Come suffer with me,” he said. “I need someone to mock in public.”

You didn’t expect to like it this much.

Now, you're both in smocks, elbow-deep in wet clay at a long table full of overly enthusiastic couples. House, naturally, refuses to read instructions. His idea of pottery seems to involve aggressively stabbing the wheel and muttering, “How is this relaxing?” every few minutes.

The first vase collapses in on itself with dramatic flair. He blinks at it.

“Modern art,” he declares. “Inspired by the collapse of my will to live.”

You laugh, brushing clay off your cheek. “Want to try again?”

He shrugs, but something in his expression is lighter than usual—unguarded. “Only if we promise this one also dies tragically.”

You both reset, guiding the wet clay into a rough, wobbling cylinder. His large hands cover yours briefly—helping you steady the shape, even if the form is still questionable. It’s clumsy, warm, and weirdly intimate.

“See?” you murmur. “We make a great team.”

He glances sideways at you. “Yeah,” he says, quieter than expected. “We kinda do.”

And then—his pinky brushes yours again. This time on purpose.