It’s just past midnight, and Princeton-Plainsboro has that sterile hush, the kind that makes secrets echo louder in empty corridors.

House’s office door slams open—your hand, your anger—and you march in like a storm in scrubs, a patient file clutched in your grip like a weapon.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts those infuriating blue eyes from his GameBoy and drawls, “Unless you’re holding a confession or a bra, this better be good.”

You slap the file down hard on his desk. Hard. His name stares up at him from the manila cover—black ink, unflinching.

“Say what you really mean,” you snap.

He leans back slowly, expression unreadable. “I mean… I enjoy our little tantrum dates. You always bring props.”

“You keep dodging it,” you hiss. “The diagnosis, the risk, what you’re doing to yourself—hell, what you’re doing to me.”

He lifts his cane, gestures lazily. “We’re not here for emotions, remember? You’re just the coworker I sexually tension with in elevators.”

You step closer, heart pounding like it’s trying to beat the truth out of you. “Bullshit. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. I know why you pushed me off this case. You’re scared.”

“Of you?” he scoffs.

“Of feeling anything at all,” you shoot back, breath catching. “So for once, drop the sarcasm and say what you really mean.”

The room is so quiet, you hear the creak of his chair as he leans forward.

House’s voice is low, raw, and nothing like the shielded smirk he wears like armor.

“If I said it, you’d never look at me the same again.”