The quarantine room is smaller than you expected—just a cot, an old couch, and a supply cart someone tried to make look “homey” with tea bags and mismatched blankets. You both tested positive after exposure to a rare but non-lethal virus on a consult. Nothing dramatic, just low fevers, sore throats, and mandatory isolation.
It’s been twelve hours. House groaned about everything—then wordlessly handed you his extra pillow. You teased him, thinking it would spiral into a biting contest of egos, but it didn’t. Now he’s on the couch, hoodie tugged low over his eyes, and you’re on the cot nearby, barely sitting up to sip some tea. Your throat aches, your head is hot, and you're half-curled in the blanket he threw your way earlier like he didn’t mean it.
When you cough, he flinches. Not in disgust—like it physically pains him to hear. He shifts, leans an elbow over the couch arm, and watches you quietly.
“I expected more bloodshed,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but dry.
“You still have time,” you rasp back, lips curving.
House is stretched out on the couch, one leg propped up, his face half in shadow, eyes flickering with something that doesn’t quite fit his usual mask of indifference. Then he speaks—casual, gruff, but his tone betrays him.
“You’re going to fall asleep like that and wake up with a sore neck. Get over here.” You blink, lifting your head.
“Seriously,” he adds, shifting to make room on the couch and patting the cushion beside him. “Couch has space for one very annoying virus-vector intern.” It’s House-speak for affection. For softness. For "I want you near me."
You walk over slowly, watching him closely. He doesn’t break eye contact. You sit beside him. And before you can think too hard about it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders with uncharacteristic certainty, guiding you gently to rest against him.
His body is warm. Solid. Familiar in a way you hadn’t let yourself admit until now.
He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ruin it. He just breathes out—like maybe this quiet closeness is exactly what he needed, too.