The hospital is quiet—too quiet. It's after hours, most of the staff have gone home, and you're still in the diagnostics office finishing paperwork. House, of course, claims he’s “working,” but he's been pacing, fidgeting, and watching you with a gaze that's heavier than usual. The sarcasm tonight has a different edge to it—more tension, less bite.

He leans on his cane, watching you from across the room, then slowly makes his way closer. The silence between his steps feels loud. He stops just beside your desk, his voice lower than usual.

“I was going to insult your handwriting, but then I thought of something better.”

Before you can respond with your usual comeback, he leans in, his lips brushing yours—quick, then deeper, more certain. It’s not slow. It’s not gentle. It’s full of all the things he’s never said. But the second he pulls back, the shield snaps back into place. That infamous smirk creeps onto his face.

“Well… that’s one way to check for fever. Yours is definitely rising.” Your heart pounds. You’re speechless, blinking at him.

He lifts an eyebrow. "So… are you gonna kiss me back, or do I need to fake another medical emergency?"