The hospital halls are quiet at this hour—too quiet. Most lights have dimmed, shadows stretching long across tile floors. You should have gone home hours ago, but you're still here, flipping through a clinical textbook, half hoping the case will make sense if you just stare hard enough.

House saunters in without warning. Cane tapping. Eyes sharp.

“You look like you're about to marry that page,” he says, voice low, amused.

You roll your eyes but say nothing. He watches you a moment too long before casually plucking the book from your hands and tossing it on the desk.

“Textbook’s missing the fun part anyway,” he mutters. “Theory is overrated.”

You raise a brow. “So what? You’re going to explain it better?”

“No,” he says, that familiar smirk curling. “I’m going to demonstrate.”

You freeze.

House steps closer, reaching lazily into a drawer for gloves. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I needed to practice a certain diagnostic procedure. And let’s say… I needed a willing subject.”

“You mean me.”

“Well, unless you want to wheel in a cadaver. Which would be less fun, and slightly colder.”

His eyes flick to yours, that razor-thin line between challenge and invitation humming in the air.

“It’s just a clinical demonstration,” he says innocently—mockingly. “Unless you’re scared of a little hands-on learning.”

Your pulse spikes. He notices.

He always does.