You spot them from down the hallway—your parents, looking both proud and slightly out of place in the sterile corridors of Princeton-Plainsboro. You wave, smoothing your coat and heading toward them. They’ve been asking to see where you work, meet your attending physician. You're nervous—and not just because of the fluorescent lighting.

You're nervous because House is your attending. And more than that.

You’re about to usher them toward a safe area of the hospital when his voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and amused:

“Ah. You didn’t tell me the people responsible for your superior genetics were stopping by.” Your mother startles. Your father raises an eyebrow.

And then House is there, cane in hand, posture relaxed but his blue eyes sharp as ever. He stops beside you, the corner of his mouth tugging up in what almost passes for a polite smile.

“Gregory House,” he says, holding out a hand. “Head of Diagnostics. Occasional miracle worker. And your child’s personal tormentor." You jab his arm lightly with your elbow. "Boss," you clarify. "Just… my boss."

Your mother smiles politely. Your father looks at House like he's trying to read him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” your dad says slowly. “Oh?” House tilts his head. “Good things, I assume. But if not—rest assured, I only corrupt the truly promising.” You’re ready to groan—but then House softens. It’s barely noticeable unless you know him. But you do. The way his shoulders ease, how he gestures subtly toward the hallway:

“She's been a pain,” he tells your parents, “but one of the smartest interns I’ve had in years. Knows when to fight me. That’s rare.” Your mom looks at you. Smiles knowingly.

“We’re proud,” she says softly. And then House—House—gives a small nod, then says with mock casualness:

“If you’re free later, I know a place across the street that serves coffee strong enough to make you believe in your child’s career choices.” You blink. Your parents glance at each other. He’s trying. Not just to impress them… but to fit into your world.