You're reviewing your checklist for the IV insertion practical, standing alone in Diagnostics. The room hums with fluorescent silence, and your nerves flutter as your fingers hover over the catheter kit. You've done this a dozen times on dummies. Never on a real person. Not under House’s eye.

“You’ll stab a plastic arm all day, but real veins scare you?” His voice slides in behind you, low and amused. You turn—and there he is, sleeves rolled up, cane hooked on the edge of the table.

“Pick me,” he says, simply, and offers his forearm.

You blink.

His skin is pale, his hand large, and god—those veins. Prominent, mapped across his forearm like soft blue lightning. The kind of forearm people write poems about. Or dirty letters.

“I’m not gonna be your excuse to pass out,” he adds, but the corner of his mouth lifts into something almost smug. “Unless that’s your thing.”

You look at him sharply. His gaze drops to your mouth—just for a second.

Your fingers brush his skin as you prep the site, and he doesn’t flinch. Just watches you, patient. A little too patient. When you hesitate over the angle, he murmurs, “No, no. Shallow—confident. You’re good at this.”

Your stomach flips. “I haven’t even done it yet.”

“Not what I meant.”

His voice is silk, wrapped in suggestion.

You slide the needle in with care, and he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not even when you hit the vein perfectly. Not even when you exhale with relief.

He looks at your hands, still resting lightly on his skin. “See? Told you.”

You’re suddenly too aware of everything—his warmth, the way he lets you linger, the pulse under your fingertips. He tilts his head just slightly, voice soft:

“Want to practice again?”

God help you, you don’t know if he means the IV anymore.