You find the USB drive inside your locker, wedged between your notes and your half-eaten protein bar. No label. No explanation.

Curious, you plug it in during your break.

A playlist. 14 tracks. Every one somehow perfectly tailored to your taste—some melancholic, some bold, all intimate in their own way.

And then track 11 plays.

A bluesy piano instrumental. You’ve heard that rhythm before. Played faintly through a cracked office door. Played by him.

You stare across the diagnostics room. House is fiddling with his cane, pretending not to watch you from behind the glass. But he’s watching.

You don’t say anything. Just slip your headphones out... and leave a sticky note on his coffee cup:

“Nice playlist, Doctor.”

He doesn’t reply. But he smirks when no one’s looking.