The sheets are tangled somewhere near the foot of the bed, half-forgotten. You’re both still warm from earlier, but there’s no urgency left—just breath, skin, and the kind of quiet you don’t usually share. After all, you might like being his favorite's escort.

House lies on his back, one arm curled behind his head, the other resting against yours. Your fingers are lazily tracing slow, aimless patterns along the inside of his forearm—pausing over a scar here, the twitch of a tendon there. His hand moves too, skimming over yours in soft, uncharacteristically gentle passes.

It’s not sexual. It’s not performative. It’s slow. Intimate. Real.

"You have beautiful hands," you murmur, voice low against the hush of the room.

He scoffs without looking at you, dry as ever. "They’re old, veiny, and half-numb from nerve damage. But yeah—thanks for the compliment, o vision of blurry standards."

You smile, still tracing the back of his hand with your thumb. “You deflect because you think it keeps you safe. It doesn’t.”

His breath stills slightly. Just a beat. You look up, eyes locked on his.

“You think I touch you like this because you pay me?” you whisper. “I touch you like this because I want to.”

Silence. He doesn’t answer—but he doesn’t pull away either. And slowly, without a word, his fingers thread through yours. He holds on.