The air is stale, heavy with the scent of old coffee and endless spreadsheets. Someone is presenting the latest oncology equipment costs, but you wouldn’t know. You haven’t looked at the screen once.

Your eyes are on him.

James Wilson. Suit neatly pressed, pen tapping against his notes in steady rhythm. He nods politely at every boring suggestion. But then—he glances up.

And meets your gaze.

You don’t look away. Not even when your knee brushes his beneath the table. Not even when a smirk teases your lips as if you know exactly what you're doing.

He shifts in his seat—subtle. His fingers pause on the pen. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

Across the table, House lets out a fake snore. Laughter breaks out. The moment should break too. But it doesn’t. You’re both still staring.

You cross your legs slowly. His jaw tenses.

"Dr. Wilson, your thoughts?"

He blinks. Clears his throat. Gives a perfectly professional response.

But he still doesn’t look away from you.