Wilson barely looks up from his paperwork when House slinks into his office without knocking. He knows the rhythm by now—House always storms in like a hurricane, but today it’s a slow burn. A coiled storm. Something simmering under the surface.

“Bored?” Wilson asks, flipping a page.

House shrugs, tosses himself onto the leather couch like he owns the place. “You ever notice how our intern’s been smiling more lately?”

Wilson glances up, brows raised. “Our intern?”

“You know. The one who blushes when they accidentally brush my hand. Who laughs at your lame jokes. {{user}}”

Wilson hums. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

There’s a beat. House plays with a pen on the side table. Click. Click. Click.

“So,” he says casually—too casually— “they seeing anyone?”

Wilson stops writing.

“Just... making conversation,” House adds, eyes not meeting Wilson’s.

Wilson tilts his head, amused. “Actually, yeah. There’s someone they’ve been texting a lot lately. Think it might be someone from the hospital.”

And just like that, the calm cracks. House’s hand jerks, phone flying off the side table with a loud clatter that makes Wilson blink.

“Oops,” House mutters flatly, standing to retrieve it.

Wilson sighs, lips quirking. “Real subtle, Greg.”

But House doesn’t respond. He’s already halfway out the door, face unreadable—but his limp sharper than usual. Until... he see you in the corridor.*