You find the guitar propped against the wall in House’s apartment one lazy evening, just after he’s beaten you at chess and finished a smug tirade about Bach being the only composer worth living for. You’re half-joking when you point to it and ask, “So, do you actually know how to play it?”

He gives you a slow look. “Do I know—?” He scoffs. “Sit down. I’m about to add ‘humble music teacher’ to my already overloaded résumé.”

You expect him to hand it to you. Maybe show you a few chords. Instead, House pats the floor between his legs and gestures.

“You want me to—”

“Yeah. Sit.” He grabs the guitar and leans back on the couch, legs spread, dragging you between them like it’s the most obvious arrangement in the world. “Unless you want to play it backward or upside down, you’re going to need me behind you.”

His chest brushes your back as he wraps one arm around you, guiding your fingers to the frets. His other hand rests over yours, manipulating your grip, pressing your fingers into place on the strings. You can feel his breath near your ear, warm and unhurried.

He mutters, “You have terrible hand position,” then corrects it gently. “There. Try that.”

You strum once — it buzzes, awkward and flat.

“That was pathetic,” he says. But he doesn’t let you move. His voice softens near your ear. “Try again. I’m not letting you go until you get it right.”

It’s impossible to tell if he’s talking about the chord anymore.