It's the most perfect moment of your life, lying on the beach with him, watching the sun set behind the drowsy waves. You sigh contently, curl your toes into the still warm sand and it's like the last six months didn't happen. There's no hospitals, no doctors, no heartache. It's just you, House and a cool ocean breeze.
You look over at him. He's wiggling his still wet toes, trying to remove the stubborn sand from between his toes but his gaze is fixated on the pallet of soft colors in the sky.
He asked you to bring him here a week ago and you booked the next flight out, no protests, no arguing (there's no time for fighting now). He wanted to put his toes in the Pacific, so you basically carry him down the beach and held him up as the water rushed over his feet.
The innocence of the moment gets to you and a few tears fall (you've given up trying to hide your tears).
House's toes have stopped wiggling and his head ungracefully falls towards you, eyes closed. His breathing slows and you take his hand and you rub your thumb in circles over the back of his hand until its quiet. The gentle winds blow across you and a chill passes over you. There's no pain now, just peace.
And just like that, the perfect moment faded away.