You take a slow step forward, reaching for the camcorder.

“Give me that,” you say, still laughing.

House pretends to pull it away, mock-clutching it to his chest like it’s sacred.

“This is for educational purposes only,” he says. “Like a documentary. Or a sex ed video for extremely repressed interns.”

You roll your eyes and grab it anyway. He doesn’t fight you. Not really.

You flip the camera in your hands, lens now facing him. He shifts instantly—eyes darting away, jaw tightening.

“You’re not exactly photogenic,” he mutters.

“Good thing I’m filming your heart,” you reply, voice lilting with sarcasm.

But then you look through the viewfinder—and you see it. You see him.

Not just the sarcasm. Not the scowl.

You see the real thing. The way he’s watching you from under his lashes. The barely-there softness pulling at the corners of his mouth. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you—but doesn’t.

He looks down, then to the side, anywhere but into the lens. But it’s already too late.

You caught him.

You lower the camera slowly.

“You’re not looking at the camera,” you murmur.

“Lens was in the way.”