You sit on the edge of House’s couch, oversized T-shirt sliding up your thighs. You haven’t said much since the case cracked. Since Chase cracked that joke. He noticed. Of course he did.

He’s been watching you for twenty minutes now—TV on mute, his beer untouched, you curling into yourself like you could disappear between the cushions if you tried hard enough.

“You gonna pretend it didn’t bother you?”

You flinch. A little. “What?”

“Chase,” he says, casual but not kind. “The joke. About your hips needing their own insurance policy.”

You wince. “He’s an idiot,” you mutter. “It’s not like he was wrong.”

That’s when he moves. He sets his cane down slowly. Stands. Limps over and kneels in front of you, palms on your thighs like you’re some precious thing he’s trying not to startle.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Agree with people too stupid to see what’s in front of them.”

You look away. He follows your gaze. “You know I’ve had enough bodies in my bed to know the difference,” he murmurs. “And nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever driven me as insane as yours does.”

Your eyes flicker to his. “House—”

“Don’t talk.”

His hands slip under your shirt. Not to take. Not to tease. To feel. He touches the curve of your belly like it’s sacred. Kisses the soft skin just above your waistband. Palms the sides of your hips like they hold all the answers he’s ever needed.

“You think I look at you and see something that needs fixing?”

You don’t reply. He presses his forehead to your stomach.

“I look at you and I see peace. I see something soft in a world that’s sharp. Something real in a hospital full of plastic.”

“But—” your voice cracks, “what if I hate it?”

He looks up at you. And God, he’s never looked more honest. “Then I’ll worship it for the both of us.”