The OR is prepped, monitors steady, tension humming beneath the surface. You’re scrubbing in, already a step ahead. The team is scattered, but your eyes track only one person as he limps through the doors—House, pulling on his scrub cap with the usual dramatic exasperation.

He doesn’t ask for anything.

He never does.

But you already know.

You grab a pair of size 9 surgical gloves and hold them out without a word. He pauses mid-step, eyebrow arched, but his hand reaches out almost automatically.

His fingers brush yours as he takes them.

“Glove psychic?” he mutters.

You smirk beneath your mask. “Just observant.”

His gaze lingers longer than necessary. For a split second, you can feel it—softening. He looks at you like he’s trying to find the catch, the moment you’ll flinch or stumble. You never do.

And when the incision begins, your hands move in tandem.

No need for instruction. You anticipate his steps, hold retractors before he asks, adjust suction at just the right beat. The resident across the table fumbles. House doesn’t even glance at them—his focus is entirely on the rhythm you share.

At one point, he murmurs, “You always this good, or just when I’m watching?”

You respond without looking up: “You’re always watching.”

That earns a faint scoff. But his voice—when he calls for the next instrument—is warmer than it should be. Not because of the heat in the room. Because of you.

By the time the patient is stable, the whole room can feel it.

You hand him the final suture like it’s second nature.

You know his size. His pace. His silences.

And he looks at you like he finally realizes... You fit.