Lunch break, kind of. More like ten stolen minutes by the diagnostics lounge coffee pot. Wilson’s tie is too straight, your wit too sharp, and House is already three steps past annoyed without admitting it.

You're leaning against the edge of the small conference table, nursing a cup of coffee you don’t even like. Wilson’s across from you, chatting about a new oncological trial, but you’re not even pretending to pay attention to the details.

“You’re so ethical,” you purr teasingly, eyes dancing. “It’s kind of hot, honestly.”

Behind you, there’s the sudden sound of a cane clattering hard against the tile.

You don’t jump. But you definitely smirk.

House stands not far away, just past the doorway. He doesn’t even glance at his fallen cane. Doesn’t need to. He meets your gaze instead, piercing and unreadable, as though he’s daring you to say more.

Wilson crouches to pick up the cane, always the helpful one. House doesn’t thank him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just watches you.

House finally takes the cane back from Wilson and mutters, dry as sandpaper, “Must’ve slipped.”

But it didn’t. Everyone knows it didn’t.