The lights in House’s office are dim, warm with the last golden tones of the hallway fluorescents bleeding in. You’re both supposed to have gone home hours ago, but instead, a worn chessboard now sits between two mismatched mugs—his coffee long cold, yours untouched.

“You’ve never played?” he repeats with exaggerated disbelief, lounging in his chair, cane leaning against the desk. “And they still let you wear a white coat?”

You roll your eyes, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table where he’s set up the game. “You gonna mock me or teach me?”

“Oh, I can multitask,” he smirks.

He starts with the basics—what each piece does, what you can’t do. At first, it’s straightforward, almost clinical. But then he moves closer. He leans in, his voice low, his hand guiding yours—not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“You’re too nice,” he says, watching you hesitate with your rook. “This is war, not a morality test.”

You make your move anyway, a little shakier than you meant to. He doesn’t gloat when he takes your queen five turns later. He just studies you with sharp blue eyes and a twitch of a smile. You’re not sure if he’s proud or intrigued—or both.

Eventually, you're both quieter. Tension pulls thin between you like silk thread. Your fingers brush accidentally—his wrist lingering a little too long as he resets the pieces.

“You learn fast,” he murmurs, eyes still on the board. Then, softer: “You always do.”