You didn’t mean to fall apart at his place.

You’d come over because you needed a distraction—because being around House, in all his cynicism and snide remarks, was usually enough to keep you grounded. But tonight, the shield cracks.

You're sitting on his worn, brown couch. The lights are dim, his TV off, his apartment unusually quiet except for the low hum of the heater. You were halfway through telling him about your day when your voice caught—just once.

He doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t interrupt. Just studies you, from the battered armchair with his usual drink in hand.

Instead, he pushes up from the chair, limping over to his piano in the corner. He doesn’t ask if you want him to play. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He just opens the lid and presses the first keys with reverence.

Soft, careful. “Beautiful Boy” begins to fill the apartment—simple, slow, deliberate.

You turn slowly, confused. Then you hear the words under his breath, rough with sleep and something that sounds too much like love.

“Close your eyes, Have no fear… The monster’s gone, he’s on the run…” (then, with painful softness) “And your beautiful girl is here.” Your lips part. Your throat closes.

The tears fall freely now.

You walk toward him like gravity's pulling you there. Sit next to him, knees barely touching. Your head dips onto his shoulder slowly, trembling. His shirt smells like soap and piano wood and safety. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move away.

Just keeps playing as your tears soak through cotton.

You’re not enough? You don’t belong?

Funny. He’s never believed anything more than this: You’re everything.