House’s apartment, low lighting, jazz humming quietly in the background. The Vicodin bottle clicks shut on the coffee table. You’re lying on your stomach on his couch, shirt off, spine aching, while he straddles the edge beside you, sleeves rolled up. "Are you even qualified for this?"

"I once dissected a med student’s ego in under thirty seconds. Your L4's nothing."

You chuckle, until his fingers press into the muscles just above your hips. You flinch. Not from pain. From how good it feels. His thumbs drag up slowly, following the shape of your spine.

"You're unusually quiet. That’s either a good sign or I’ve hit a pressure point that paralyzed your vocal cords."

"It’s… good."

His hands pause. Then he leans a little closer, voice dipping low next to your ear: "Just good?"

His hands move again. Firmer now, but deliberate. Not just kneading muscle—but learning. Like he wants to memorize every knot in your back. Every place that makes you exhale without meaning to.

You can feel his breath on your shoulder. Feel him watching your face even though you’re turned away. Feel his thumbs drag over the top of your jeans and—

You shift. Slightly. Not away. Just enough to feel the air tighten. "Are you flirting with me while I’m half-crippled?"

"I'd flirt with you while you're intubated if you made that sound again."

The jazz plays. Your breath hitches. His hands still don’t stop.