You're explaining something—firm, confident, fully in your element.

“…but as Dr. House already noted, the inflammatory markers…”

He freezes.

That name—his name—spoken so clearly from your lips. Polished. Formal. Almost reverent. It shouldn't matter. But it does.

His fingers twitch on his cane.

You don’t notice it at first—you’re too busy flipping through the file—but House doesn’t take his eyes off you. The patient asks a question, and again, you answer: “Dr. House will likely order imaging next, to rule out any obstruction—”

Something about the way you say it, like he's your professional superior… or worse, like you enjoy the weight of the title on your tongue. Like it means more than it should.

He adjusts how he’s standing. Clears his throat. His voice lower than usual. “Keep saying it like that, and I’m going to need five minutes and a locked office.”

You glance over, slightly startled—and he’s already watching you like he owns the moment. Eyes low. Amused. Wrecked.

The patient doesn't notice. But you sure as hell do.