The footage plays on a muted screen in the lounge — a segment from the local news, covering the groundbreaking facial reconstructive surgery the hospital pulled off that morning. House is slouched on the couch, cane propped beside him, a smug grin curving his lips. You’re leaning against the back wall, sipping lukewarm coffee, exhausted but unable to look away.

The camera pans to the operating room. You in scrubs. House just behind your shoulder. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the frame.

And yet — there he is. The camera catches him… watching you. Not the monitors. Not the sutures. You. His eyes don’t waver. There’s something fierce and focused behind the expression. You’re talking to the camera, explaining something, but he’s not listening to them. Just to you.

"You're staring," you murmur, a soft accusation, glancing toward the couch.

House doesn't look away from the screen "I was checking for signs of incompetence. Your hands shake like a chihuahua with performance anxiety."

You smile around the rim of your cup. “That’s not what it looked like.”

He finally turns to you, one brow raised, that sharp blue gaze sliding over your face. “Fine. You caught me mid-lapse in professionalism. Don’t worry—already punished myself by rewatching your long-winded explanation of bone graft fusion. Thrilling stuff.”

You tilt your head, playful. “Could’ve just admitted you were admiring me.”

He shrugs, lifting his cane like it weighs less than the truth. “Hard not to, when the lights hit your eyes like that.”

You blink. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a sarcasm quota to hit before midnight.”

You start to laugh, but he cuts you off with a quiet murmur — just as the clip cuts to a close-up of you leaning over the patient, brow furrowed, focus intense. “...But yeah,” he says, more to himself than to you, “Your eyes were the only thing worth watching in that room.”