You're heading down the hallway, clipboard in hand, mentally juggling lab results and your rapidly approaching case presentation. You pause near the break room, waiting for the coffee machine to wheeze out whatever excuse for caffeine it has left.

Two residents walk past behind you, voices low—but not low enough.

“Bet she’s fun when she’s not in scrubs,” one says.

“I’d take the night shift for a taste of that,” the other laughs.

Your heart skips. You freeze. You feel the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck—not because you care what they think, but because they said it so freely. Like it was nothing. Like you were nothing but an idea.

But you’re not the only one who hears it.

House rounds the corner behind you. You don’t even know how long he’s been standing there. His expression isn’t confusion. It’s rage. Not loud, not explosive—yet.

Just razor-sharp silence.

He keeps walking until he’s standing directly in front of the guy who said it. Close. Too close.

House’s voice is low. Deadly calm. “Say that again.”

The guy shifts, nervous now. “Relax, House. It was just a joke—”

CRACK.

House’s cane slams against the vending machine beside him, the sound making the whole hallway jump. He steps forward, voice now a whip.

“That's not a joke. That’s a hospital-wide HR violation wrapped in a tiny, flaccid fantasy. One more word about her, and you’ll be retrieving your teeth from radiology.”

Silence. Wide eyes. Scattered footsteps as they clear out.

It was the way he said “her.” Like the idea of anyone touching you wrong didn’t just piss him off.

It burned him.