The hum of the old electric kettle fills the quiet of House’s office. It’s late—most of the hospital is empty, bathed in dim hallway lights and silence. You stand at the small counter tucked beside the file cabinets, waiting for the water to boil. The mugs are already set: one black, chipped and mismatched (House’s), and one you always use when you're here after hours.

You’re stirring sugar into one of them when you hear the door click behind you.

He’s quiet. But you know his presence like gravity.

Gregory House says nothing at first. You expect a sarcastic remark or a flippant comment about your tea-making skills—but instead, you feel it: the slow, deliberate press of his chest against your back.

His cane rests somewhere out of reach now. His hands slide around your waist with practiced ease, fingers spreading beneath your shirt to rest warm against your skin. His breath fans against your neck, voice a low, husky murmur:

“Let them walk in. I don’t care.”

You freeze, pulse stuttering under his mouth as he dips forward and kisses just beneath your ear—soft, slow, like he’s branding you.

“You always think so much,” he whispers, nudging your hair aside with his nose. “Always worrying. Who might see. What it might mean. But here’s the thing—”

He lets his teeth scrape the curve of your neck, just enough to make your knees weak.

“I want them to see.”

He holds you tighter, guiding your hands back to the tea you were making, his chin resting on your shoulder now.

“Finish what you were doing,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word. “But don’t move. I like you exactly where you are.”