You're scribbling something on the whiteboard, too focused to notice the silence behind you.

House isn’t focused on your notes.

He’s focused on your hips, the way your fitted scrubs cling just enough when you stretch, the sway of your body as you shift your weight from one leg to the other. His eyes follow every inch, lazily, like he’s studying something deeply clinical—but the smirk tugging at his lips says otherwise.

Wilson clears his throat.

House doesn’t even flinch. “I’m just admiring the... anatomy. Purely educational.”

When you turn around, puzzled, he’s already limping past you—cane tapping, eyes smug, voice low:

“Should be illegal to wear pants like that in my department.”