The fluorescent light hums faintly overhead. You’re leaning against the edge of House’s desk, pointing at a case file. “So, the eosinophils were elevated, which could—”

You trail off.

House isn’t looking at the chart. He’s not even pretending to.

He’s watching your lips.

Direct. Intent. Not moving.

Your breath catches slightly, the silence growing thick. Your lips part involuntarily under the weight of his stare, and his eyes track the movement like a wolf watching something twitch in the snow.

“What?” you ask, trying to sound annoyed but barely holding the edge.

He shrugs lazily, like it’s no big deal, eyes still locked on your mouth.

“Just wondering...” he says slowly, voice lower now, “...how much more distracting they’d be if you weren’t talking.”

You blink, pulse flaring.

“You want me to shut up?”

He finally looks up—just for a second—and smirks. “Not really. I just want to see what they’d do when they’re not forming excuses to stay on that side of the desk.”