The whiteboard was cluttered with scribbles and arrows—three possible diagnoses, four if you counted House’s wild card theory, which you didn’t. You leaned against the glass wall, arms crossed, watching him pace with that familiar intensity, cane tapping out his thoughts with every sharp step.

“It’s not vasculitis,” you said confidently, flipping through the lab report again.

“It could be vasculitis,” he retorted, but his eyes weren’t really on the labs anymore—they were on you. Lazily. Curiously. Like he was already five moves ahead and just waiting for you to catch up.

You smirked. “Wanna bet on it?”

He stopped. Dead in his tracks. A beat of silence. That got him.

The corner of his mouth lifted—dangerous, deliberate. “Bold. Arrogant. I like it.”

He turned to the board, dramatically scribbling a circle around his theory. “Fine. I bet vasculitis.”

You walked over to the file tray, dropped the latest immunoassay results in front of him like a mic drop. “Negative for ANCA. You lose.”

His eyes scanned the paper.

He didn’t flinch.

No protest. No sarcasm.

Just a lazy, theatrical sigh.

“Oh no,” he said dryly. “Whatever will I do.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “Pay up.”

He stepped closer. Not rushed. Not loud. The cane hit the wall behind you as he leaned in, lips hovering just a breath away, heat radiating from him in waves. His voice dipped to a murmur.

“I never lose...” he whispered, “unless I want to.”

And then—he kissed you. Slow. Certain. And his hands fond your jaw.