You were hoping he wouldn’t notice.

A hand pressed lightly against your temple, a wince when the lights in the diagnostics office flared a little too bright—small things. Manageable. But Gregory House notices everything. Especially the things you try to hide.

“Headache?” he asks, voice casual, eyes already too focused.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, barely glancing up from your chart.

“Wrong. If it were nothing, you wouldn’t be squinting like someone just punched you in the frontal lobe.” He limps closer, popping a Vicodin with theatrical flair before perching on the edge of your desk.

You sigh. “I said I’m fine.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not in the habit of listening.”

Before you can argue, he’s already reaching out—fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush your hair aside and rest lightly against your forehead. His thumb lingers there, not moving, not applying pressure. Just resting. Warm. Too deliberate.

“Low-grade fever,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand trails along your hairline, tracing down behind your ear under the guise of checking glands. His gaze flicks to yours, close enough now that you can feel his breath when he speaks again. “Or maybe you’re just blushing because I’m touching you.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirks. “And yet… still letting me touch you.”

You should move. Say something sharp. But you don’t. And he doesn’t either.

Just his fingers, lingering. Just his eyes, watching.

A clinical excuse, a not-so-clinical moment.

Neither of you breathe too loudly.