Another hour. Another round-table meeting that could’ve been an email. You stifle a yawn, pen tapping softly against your notebook. To your right, House is slouched with his cane hooked on the back of his chair, half-asleep, eyes almost closed.

Until they’re not.

Someone across the table says something mildly amusing—Dr. So-Handsome with the perfect teeth and easy laugh. You glance up, meet his eyes, and smile politely. Maybe a little longer than you should.

He smiles back.

You look down again, heat rising in your cheeks.

That’s when you feel it.

The weight of a stare.

Your eyes lift slowly—to your left this time. House hasn’t moved. His head is tilted, blue eyes locked on your face, jaw clenched just slightly.

Not smiling.

Not blinking.

Your breath catches.

He quirks a brow, then leans a fraction closer, voice barely above a whisper: "Getting bored of sarcasm already?"

The room fades. The coffee, the charts, the noise—gone. It’s just him. His voice. That look.

Like he saw everything.

And he did.