House’s apartment. Late. Files open. Your legs crossed on his couch. He’s sitting close—maybe too close. But you haven’t noticed yet.

You’re talking. Something about the patient’s liver enzymes or the protein panel.

House is quiet. Quieter than usual. Not in a biting, calculating way. Just… watching you.

At first, it’s nothing—just the usual rhythm of working side by side. But then his knee bumps yours. And doesn’t move away.

You glance up. He pretends not to notice.

Five minutes later, his hand grazes your wrist. Supposedly reaching for a pen. Even though he already has one tucked behind his ear.

Then, again—his fingers brushing your ankle where it’s tucked under you. You look at him. He’s not writing. Not focused.

His eyes are on your lips. On your hands. On your presence.

“You okay?” you ask.

He shrugs, eyes still on the file like you didn’t just catch him reaching. “Perfectly fine. Just slowly dying from chronic loneliness and unreciprocated affection.”

You blink. He’s kidding. Of course he is. Except… the line lands somewhere deeper. You let the silence stretch.

And then his fingers are on your thigh—barely there, but enough. A touch that says: Notice me. Just for a minute. Please.

You close your folder. Shift toward him. And when your hand covers his, he flinches—like he didn’t expect it. Like he forgot you might reach back.

“You could’ve just said something.”

“Nah,” he murmurs. “This is better. You touching me on your own free will? Practically foreplay.”