It started as one of those rare lulls on a Tuesday afternoon. Coffee half-full. Files scattered. The whiteboard still smudged from House’s last tantrum. You were seated beside Taub, discussing a recent patient’s twisted marital drama when the conversation took a personal turn.

Thirteen sat on the armrest, listening with a smirk. Chase was checking his phone. House? He leaned against the desk, silent, spinning his cane absently... but you could feel it. His eyes. On you.

“You think real love still exists?” Taub asked, not sarcastic for once. Just tired.

You tilted your head, thinking. “I think it’s quiet,” you said, slowly. “Not all fireworks and drama. Just… someone who sees all your versions and stays. Someone you can lean against in silence, someone who knows how you take your coffee, who can tell when your laugh is forced and doesn’t let you lie to them.”

Taub hummed. “So… fairytale stuff.”

You smiled, soft but firm. “Not a fairytale. Just rare. But I don’t want someone who completes me. I want someone who holds me—without trying to fix me.”

And that's when you felt it. The shift. House, still lounging in his spot, completely still. Not a joke. Not a snide remark. Just watching you like you’d cracked a safe he didn’t know he kept locked. His voice was unusually quiet when he finally spoke. “Sounds inconvenient,” he muttered. “All that emotional honesty.”

You turned to meet his gaze, and there it was again—the look. The one he gave when he didn’t mean to care but couldn’t help it. “I didn’t say it was convenient,” you replied. “I said it was worth it.”

And he didn’t look away.