Foreman’s leaning against the counter, grinning as you organize your chart. He’s in full charm mode—complimenting your diagnosis, teasing your tie placement, offering to “grab coffee if your mentor ever gives you a break.”

You laugh politely, but glance once—just once—across the glass wall of Diagnostics.

House is seated at the conference table, sprawled in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. Watching.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t bang his cane. Doesn’t roll in with a snide remark.

Instead, he smirks.

Foreman chuckles at something you barely heard. “What?” he says. “No time for coffee?”

Before you can answer, a low voice echoes from the doorway: “Oh, {{user}}'s got time. She just has better taste.”

You both turn. House doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes are on you. Only you.

Foreman rolls his eyes. “Relax, House. I’m not stealing your intern.”

House shrugs. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

Your heart skips. He says it so lazily, so casually—like he’s not the least bit threatened. And somehow that’s worse. Somehow that makes your pulse race.

You meet his gaze as he gestures toward the files. “If you’re done fending off poorly-disguised flirtation, there’s a case waiting. Unless you’d rather get lattes and regret.”

You bite back a smile and slip past Foreman, heading straight to House—who doesn’t move, just watches you come to him like he knew you would.