The late afternoon light spills through the blinds in lazy golden lines, catching the dust motes in the air. House’s apartment is unusually quiet—no TV blaring, no piano, no sarcastic grumbling. Just you, him, and the couch.

You sit close, but not too close. A book in your hands. You’ve read the same paragraph twice already. Maybe it’s because you can feel the weight of his presence next to you—loafers kicked off, Vicodin bottle untouched on the table. He’s not saying anything, but every few moments, you feel his eyes flick toward you.

You pretend not to notice.

It’s not until you're mid-sentence that it happens. His hand finds yours. No grand gesture. No dramatic movement. Just... a quiet slide across the space between you on the couch, fingers brushing until they catch yours. He doesn’t even look. Keeps his gaze lazily aimed at the ceiling, like nothing happened.

Like his heart isn’t beating as fast as yours.

You glance down. His pinky is resting against your thumb. His palm is open—unguarded.

You just keep reading. Like you weren’t waiting for this. Like it’s always been this easy. Always been this quiet. As if comfort with him isn’t the rarest miracle of all.

The page turns.

His thumb curls around yours.