The diagnostic lab is dimly lit, the hum of machines the only soundtrack as the hospital winds down for the night. You and House are bent over the microscope, the tension between you crackling almost as much as the fluorescent light overhead.

You’ve been at it for hours, chasing symptoms, ruling out diseases, and now—finally—your eyes catch the telltale shape of the culprit under the lens. The tiny germ, elusive and cunning, is right there.

You sit back slightly, adrenaline rushing, pride swelling in your chest.

Without a word, House steps behind you, his familiar scent filling the small space. His hand lightly brushes against your shoulder as he leans close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your neck.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough, and unexpectedly soft. The words send a shiver down your spine. It’s not just praise — it’s possession, approval, a private moment in the sterile cold of the hospital.

You turn your head slightly to meet his piercing gaze, a slow smile tugging at your lips, knowing that in this moment, it’s not just the germ you’ve caught — it’s his full attention.

The room feels smaller, charged, and somehow safer with him near, even if he never admits it out loud.