It starts in the middle of a quiet post-shift lull. The corridors are emptying. Most of the staff has gone home, but you stayed behind with House—like you always do when you don’t want the day to end.

He’s seated on the worn couch in the diagnostics office, leg stretched out stiffly in front of him, jaw clenched in that familiar way he thinks no one notices. But you do. You’ve memorized every tic, every twitch of his expression when the pain is worse than usual and he’s trying not to reach for his pills too quickly.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, not looking at you as you perch beside him.

“You’re not.” You fold your arms. “You’re guarding your leg and biting the inside of your cheek. Pain’s spiking, isn’t it?”

He shoots you a tired glare. “You missed your calling in psych.”

You smile gently, not backing off. “You know oxytocin helps reduce the perception of pain?”

“Oh good,” he says flatly. “Let me go sniff a baby.”

You shift closer, close enough that your knees brush. “That’s not the only way to get oxytocin. Touch. Trust. Emotional bonding...”

His eyes flick to yours, now guarded in a different way. “Are you giving me a lecture or making a pass?”

“Maybe both,” you reply softly, then lean in—slowly enough to let him pull back if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. And then you kiss him.

Not soft this time. Not shy. You kiss him like you mean it, like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’ll ever admit aloud. Your hand tangles in his shirt, the other resting on his chest where you feel his heart stutter. You press in slowly, deliberately, deepening the kiss—not asking, not teasing—giving.

And god, he lets you.

His lips part just enough, breath caught, like he doesn’t know what’s happening but doesn’t want it to stop. He tastes like sarcasm and tension and something you never thought you'd get close enough to feel: vulnerability.