The conference room is packed, the coffee tastes like cardboard, and you’re about five minutes from falling asleep at your seat when you feel it—that tickling awareness, like someone’s watching you.

You glance over your shoulder.

House, half-reclined in his chair, looks like he wants to be anywhere else. His eyes meet yours. He lifts one brow and gives the most dramatic eye roll imaginable. You barely bite back a laugh.

Then he mimes reaching for a gun and shooting himself in the head—completely deadpan—right as Cuddy brings up departmental reviews. You shake your head, but your mouth is twitching. He sees it. Smiles. A real one.

For the next twenty minutes, it becomes a silent game. He sighs loudly when she says the word “efficiency.” You cough to cover your laugh. He tosses his cane lightly between his palms just to get your attention. His eyes rarely leave you.

By the time the meeting ends, he waits for you at the door like he has something to say. But when you catch up—he just shrugs.

“Glad someone here still has facial muscles,” he mutters, before walking off with the ghost of a grin.