You're in the diagnostics office, flipping through lab results under the low hum of fluorescent lights. Chase leans on the desk beside you, far too close.

Chase (smiling): “You know, if you ever get tired of working under House... I could always use a brilliant second opinion. Over dinner.”

You laugh it off, playful but firm. “Flattery and a job offer? Must be serious.”

He winks, says something cheeky in that charming Aussie lilt, then excuses himself with a smirk.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence. Then—

House say, from the glass wall, where you didn’t even see him: “You have a type. Blond, charming, easily impressed.”

You glance up. He’s already inside, limp exaggerated, cane tapping against the floor as he strolls in.

“Should I start styling my hair like him? Grow an accent? Or are you holding auditions?”

He leans on the edge of your desk. Closer than Chase ever did. His eyes linger—not on the files.