The three of you are curled up on the couch, a blanket draped haphazardly across your legs. Wilson is half-asleep against your shoulder, glasses askew, a medical journal forgotten in his lap. House sits at your other side, twirling a TV remote he has no intention of using.

“Wilson drooled on your sweater,” House mutters, glancing over with a smirk.

You glance down. “Worth it.”

He rolls his eyes but shifts a little closer, his hand finding yours under the blanket. His thumb brushes over your knuckles—light, thoughtless, honest.

“Not bad,” he says quietly, after a long silence.

You tilt your head. “What’s not?”

“This. You. Him. Us.”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “Took us long enough.”

Wilson stirs, mumbling something incoherent, and then sighs contentedly when your fingers slip into his hair.

“Tell anyone I like this, I’ll deny it,” House adds, though he doesn’t let go of your hand.

You lean into him, resting your head briefly on his shoulder.

“Deal.”