The diagnostics lab was quiet—hushed under the weight of exhaustion and fluorescent hums, the kind of stillness that only came after the last patient was discharged and the rest of the team had finally cleared out.

You pulled off one latex glove the regular way—snapped it off with a practiced flick of your fingers, letting it fall into the trash. Efficient. Boring.

The second? Not so much.

You hooked your teeth at the edge, tugging gently, eyes still locked on the file in front of you, pretending you didn’t feel the burn of his stare from across the room.

The thin snap of latex parted from your wrist slowly, sliding with deliberate resistance. You tilted your head just slightly to catch the edge, your mouth parting as the glove slipped free.

And House?

He was frozen.

Not in pain. Not distracted.

But fully, shamelessly watching.

His cane was hooked on the edge of the table behind him, his hand hovering like he’d forgotten it was there. The half-drunk coffee in his other hand had cooled—untouched since you leaned back against the counter, eyes flicking to his just long enough to make it clear: yes, you knew what you were doing.

“You done?” he finally rasped, voice rougher than usual.