You're burning up. The room feels like it's swaying with every step, your body caught somewhere between over-functioning adrenaline and the soft tug of feverish exhaustion. But you showed up anyway—because missing rounds under House's leadership means either you're dead, or worse, you’ll never hear the end of it.

“You look like a microwaved corpse,” he mutters. “Sexy.”

You grin, dazed but shameless. “You think I’m sexy?”

He freezes in the doorway, raising a brow. “So the fever got to your filter, huh?”

“I feel hot,” you whisper with a slight smile. “And not just temperature-wise.”

He steps closer slowly, watching your face like he's unsure whether to call Cuddy or enjoy the show. “Take off your coat.”

You stand, swaying slightly as you fumble with the buttons. His hands appear suddenly, brushing yours away as he opens the coat himself—more clinical than gentle, but his fingers linger at your collarbone a bit too long for it to be purely diagnostic.

Your voice is lower now, breathy. “You usually this handsy with interns?”

He pulls away like your skin burned him, stepping back with a sharp glare that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re delirious. You’re lucky I don’t send you home in an ambulance just to shut you up.”

You smile wider. “So you’d miss me.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you with something unreadable behind his eyes—some mixture of concern, restraint, and something darker. Something curious.

When he finally moves, it’s to grab a thermometer. “Open.”

You part your lips slowly, locking eyes with him the whole time. And maybe your fever’s making you reckless. Or maybe you’re just finally seeing how much heat he hides behind that sarcasm.