The hospital halls are quiet—eerily so. Late-night shifts always have that strange hush, like the walls themselves are waiting. You’re both still in Diagnostics, bathed in the pale glow of monitors and half-drunk coffee. House is slouched in his chair, tapping a pen against his thigh. You’re flipping through a chart. Tension’s been building for hours—unspoken, electric, laced with sarcasm and something far more dangerous.

“Patient exhibits chronic sass and poor impulse control,” he drawls, standing up slowly. “Might be terminal.”

You smirk, not looking up. “Sounds like projection, Doctor.”

“Oh, I don’t project,” he mutters as he moves behind you, his voice dropping. “I diagnose.”

You freeze as you feel him step in closer. His hands don’t touch—but his voice does. He leans in, his lips just beside your ear.

“Neck’s a little tense,” he murmurs, his breath warm. “Heart rate’s elevated. Want me to listen?”

Your breath catches. His fingers ghost along your arm—just once, just enough.

“I think we’re past second opinions.”

He slides one hand across your lower back—not quite touching, but the air between your bodies disappears.

“You know,” he whispers, voice thick with heat, “If this is a consult… you should probably lie back.”