The little boy shouldn’t be here anymore.

He was discharged two days ago, fully recovered, miracle case wrapped in quick thinking and House’s reluctant genius. But there he is again—bare feet padded across the diagnostics floor, his tiny hand curled around yours like it’s the only anchor he trusts.

You lean down to speak to him gently, brushing the hair from his eyes, crouched to meet his gaze. He clutches your coat sleeve. You smile, warm and steady, and he buries his face against your shoulder without a sound.

House watches from his office doorway, eyes narrowed, coffee forgotten in one hand. The room is loud—Foreman and Taub arguing over test results—but all he sees is you, crouched on the ground, whispering something soft into the boy’s ear until he giggles.

It knocks the air from his chest.

He doesn’t say anything, but he lingers. Longer than he needs to. You feel it too—his gaze fixed on you, quiet, unreadable. His cane taps once, lightly against the doorway, like he’s grounding himself.

“Didn’t know this was a daycare,” he finally says, gruff.

But there’s no bite in it.

When you look up, he’s still staring. Not at the boy. At you. His expression flickers, just for a second—something far too gentle for Gregory House.

You don’t answer. You just smile and keep your arm around the little boy.

He doesn't comment when you bring the kid juice five minutes later. But he sets a pack of crayons on the counter like it's always been there.