The host gives you a look when you walk in: House in a wrinkled blazer, Wilson too polite, you in between them with a smile that says don’t ask.

They seat you in the corner—dim lighting, linen napkins, a candle flickering between the three of you like a secret.

House immediately steals a piece of bread from Wilson’s plate.

Wilson glares. “You have your own.”

House shrugs. “Yeah, but yours looks morally superior.”

You’re sipping wine, amused, your foot nudging Wilson’s under the table. He reaches for your hand. House rolls his eyes and takes your other.

“God,” he mutters. “We’re gross.”