The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a clinical glow on the boardroom. Doctors drone on, PowerPoint slides click past, and House slouches lower in his chair, his cane resting against his leg. His right thigh trembles — subtle, but telling. Pain. Frustration. Boredom.

You glance at him. He doesn't look at you — just stares blankly ahead, jaw tight.

Slowly, you place your hand on his leg, steady and deliberate. The movement is quiet, like a secret.

House still doesn't look. But his hand shifts. Finds yours. Fingers slip between yours, locking there. No words. No quip. Just warmth.

Minutes pass like hours. When the meeting finally adjourns with the rustle of papers and chairs, you start to pull your hand away.

That’s when he finally looks at you.

Your eyes meet. His are sharp, tired — and softer than usual.

You smile at him. Just a little. Just enough.

House doesn’t smile back. But his eyes linger. “If this meeting gets any longer, I’m faking cardiac arrest.”

But he doesn’t let go.