You push open the door without knocking. His office is dim, lit mostly by the slant of afternoon light hitting the blinds. House doesn’t look up. He’s plucking a lazy tune on his guitar.

“Got tired of treating itchy patients already?” You drop the file on his desk. It lands with a satisfying thud.

“You reassigned me. I was scheduled for Neuro this morning.” “Dermatology’s in desperate need of your diagnostic genius.” You narrow your eyes. “Dermatology has a vending machine and no crises. Neuro has Dr. Shepherd.”

That gets his attention. He glances at you over the guitar.

“You mean Dr. Shampoo Commercial? He asked for you by name. Cute.” You arch an eyebrow. “So this is you being… professional?”

House sets the guitar down with a dramatic sigh.

“This is me saving you from overexposure to abs and emotional monologues.” You lean forward, both palms on his desk.

“Why do you care, House?” A beat. Too long.

He finally smirks—but his voice drops.

“I don’t. I just save my best intern of being consumed by some testosterones. That’s practically a love letter in medical terms.” Your heart’s beating faster. You hate that he always deflects—but you notice his leg bouncing, the way he’s suddenly not meeting your eyes.

“You could’ve just said something.” “I did. I gave you rashes.”