Pey

Courthouses were very different from hospitals and every time she found herself forced to step into one, she knew she was lucky to have chosen law over medicine. Although each one implied its own challenges, she thought that at least she didn’t have to check every five minutes to see if the patient was still alive; at most, her biggest concern was that her client wouldn’t end up in prison. Besides, she knew how demanding it was and how relationships could break due to spending 100 hours a week buried in work. She didn’t need to imagine it because she had it proven.

Her perfume left a soft trail as she passed. The tailored dress and the confidence in her walk made eyes inevitably turn toward her, too focused on finding the medical diagnostics office to notice it. When she finally found the glass door with his name engraved on a plaque, she turned the doorknob without even knocking.

From the other end of the hallway, Cameron, Foreman and Chase were at the nurses’ station, reviewing medical records and discussing treatments. For some reason, as if she felt called to the scene, the girl turned.

“Hey… did you see who just went into House’s office?” she asked in a low voice.

Foreman and Chase followed her gaze. Through the glass, they could see the feminine silhouette leaning slightly over House’s desk, who remained seated with his usual sarcastic expression.

“Who do you think she is?” whispered Foreman, frowning.

“Clearly she’s not a patient.”

“Nor family. Nobody comes dressed like that to visit someone sick,” added Chase.

His tone – which lived somewhere between irony and lust – earned him a tired look from Cameron.

“She could be his… friend.”

Foreman raised an eyebrow, amused. Chase gave a small smile.

“From the look, I’d say she’s ‘high profile’.”

“Foreman” Cameron shook her head, although her eyes remained fixed on the scene.

From their position, they could see how House leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression while she crossed her arms and said something the three of them couldn’t hear. Then she took a seat in the chair in front, pulling some documents out of her bag.

“She’s definitely not a doctor,” Foreman continued, arms crossed.

“I’m still betting on… something else,” said Chase, shrugging.

“What kind of person ‘bets’ on what someone does when they don’t even know them?” replied Cameron, though she didn’t stop watching as if it were a mystery that needed solving.

Although they tried to return to their duties, it was impossible not to look.

A few minutes later, the hallway door opened and Wilson appeared with his calm walk, holding a coffee. From afar, they saw him smile broadly at the female presence and then, when he entered the office, greet her with an affectionate hug followed by a kiss on the cheek.

“Wilson knows her too, now?”

“That only confirms my theory.”

“What theory?” asked Cameron, seeing Chase cross his arms.

He smiled to the side.

“That House has… very interesting connections.”

Cameron rolled her eyes.

“Or that she’s someone important and you two are letting your imagination run too wild.”

“I don’t think so. It’s called deductive analysis.”

“I call it cheap gossip,” replied Foreman, although he didn’t look away either.

Curiosity, in the diagnostics department, was a work tool, but what Cameron, Foreman and Chase felt at that moment brushed up against anthropology. They watched how Wilson laughed with a looseness improper for an oncologist, and how he took a seat near the stranger with a familiarity that dismantled any professional theory.

House, whose peripheral vision was as sharp as his tongue, didn’t need to turn his head to know that his three subordinates were looking through the glass like children in front of a display case of forbidden candy. He enjoyed the moment, letting the uncertainty simmer while Wilson and the guest exchanged a conversation.

“Enough,” sentenced House inside the office, although his voice only reached the hallway like a muffled buzz.

With a deliberately slow movement, House took his cane and hit the glass three times. The deep, dry sound made the three doctors straighten immediately, as if they had been caught rummaging through the narcotics drawer. With an imperious gesture of his hand, House indicated that they should come in.

“If you’re going to act like biologists observing an endangered species, at least have the decency to take notes,” said House as soon as they crossed the threshold.

The team spread across the office with palpable discomfort. Chase, adjusting his lab coat, positioned himself at an angle that allowed him a clear view of the woman. Up close, she was even more impressive.

“Any new case we should review, House?” asked Foreman, trying to regain professionalism, although his eyes didn’t stop studying the guest.

“Yes, actually,” answered House, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on the desk, right next to the young woman’s designer bag, “Let me introduce you to the most complex medical case you’re going to see in your careers”

He paused dramatically, enjoying Foreman’s confusion and Chase’s fixed stare.

“It’s a biological chimera, the result of a collision of phenotypes where a strangely perfect DNA chain decided to fuse with a pure strain of neurotoxicity. Observe the specimen: an organism of high resistance that has gone from the incubation phase to a state of absolute cognitive autonomy, developing an immune response to any attempt at parental control. It’s an autosomal dominant mutation, a luxury parasite that is the only diagnosis for which I don’t have, nor do I want, any cure.”

The young woman sighed, as if she had been waiting for him to finish his exaggerated monologue. She looked at the three doctors with a mixture of indulgence and sharpness.

“Forgive my father. He tends to use clinical metaphors when he doesn’t want to give simple explanations.”

The silence that followed her words was absolute, one of those heavy voids that House usually filled with sarcasm, but that this time he let expand. Cameron blinked repeatedly, trying to understand whether she had heard correctly. Foreman, for his part, let out a short sigh, an exhalation of pure disbelief; he, who always prided himself on his analytical capacity, felt as if he had overlooked an obvious symptom during an entire physical exam.

Chase was the one who took the longest to catch his breath. The confidence with which he had leaned against the doorway vanished, and his hand, which had been playing with the stethoscope, froze. The interest that had previously shone in his eyes like an easy conquest turned into a mix of fear and forbidden fascination.

“Father?” the word slipped from Chase’s mouth before he could filter it.

House let out a dry laugh, enjoying his subordinate’s bewilderment.

“Oh, yes. I have a daughter. Did I forget to mention it?” he asked with biting sarcasm. “Normally I don’t go around proclaiming our kinship; I don’t want people thinking her success in court is due to my charming genes. I wouldn’t want to embarrass her with my… local hero condition.”

“He says that because if people knew I existed, they’d have tangible proof that he once had feelings,” she added, throwing House a look loaded with an affection that no one in that hospital had ever managed to show him.

Wilson, who remained leaning against the back of the armchair, intervened with a conspiratorial smile.

“And I’m her godfather,” he added.

The sole intention was to increase the surprise.

“It’s nice to meet you,” murmured Cameron first, trying to be cordial.

“Huh, yes. Daughter, these are my lackeys on duty,” interrupted House, waving his free hand toward the group with a gesture of disdain. “Doctor Chase, who thinks he’s special, Doctor Cameron, who believes in people, and Doctor Foreman, who knows that neither of them is right.”

Each one came closer to shake her hand, with a polite smile, and when it was the blond’s turn, she shook his hand with a firmness that left no room for reply.

“Nice to meet you,” she replied briefly, withdrawing her hand before the contact could turn social. “My father tends to omit people’s names in his anecdotes, so it’s good to put faces to them.”

Chase cleared his throat, feeling for the first time that his smile wasn’t having the desired effect.

“Are you staying around here?” asked Chase.

“For a while.”

“Well… welcome.”

“Thank you.”

House observed the exchange, noticing how Chase tried to maintain eye contact longer than necessary. Although he didn’t comment on it, he was analyzing the situation, as he always did.

Before Chase could articulate another word, the rhythmic tapping of other heels —these faster and familiar— announced the entrance of Lisa Cuddy. The hospital director walked in with a file under her arm, stopping short when she saw the audience inside House’s office.

Her eyes went from House to the young lawyer, and a genuine smile, almost of relief, softened her tired expression.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were visiting,” Cuddy said, approaching to give her an affectionate squeeze on the arm. “How are you, sweetie?”

“Good, Lisa. Everything has been going pretty well,” she answered with a natural smile, revealing a relationship of years.

Cuddy nodded, dropping the file with a dry thump on House’s desk, who didn’t even bother removing his feet.

“Your father owes me three reports from this week. Maybe you’ll get him to use his brain for something other than insulting my staff,” Cuddy stated, before turning toward the three doctors who were still there, frozen. “You have a case.”

House waved his cane toward the door, reinforcing the order with a disdainful gesture.

“You heard the boss. Go play doctors” House spat “Take the file and try not to kill anyone before lunch.”

Foreman was the first to react, taking the file with a stiff nod. Cameron gave one last curious look at House’s daughter before leaving, and Chase, visibly reluctant, was the last to cross the threshold, throwing a fleeting glance over his shoulder that House intercepted with a mocking grimace.

When the glass door closed, the air in the office changed. The tension evaporated, leaving only House, Wilson, and her in an environment that, for anyone who didn’t know them, might have seemed cold, but for them was their own version of normal.

“Don’t you have to go supervise them?”

“They have four hours before they start administering the wrong treatment; I prefer they make mistakes without me watching,” House answered, settling back in his chair with a sigh that betrayed the fatigue in his leg. He shot a cutting glance at the closed door before fixing his blue eyes on his daughter. “Besides, if I go out now, everyone will ask me too many questions I don’t want to answer.”

She let out a soft laugh, leaning back with an elegance that contrasted with the chronic mess of her father’s desk. Wilson, for his part, simply crossed his arms, watching them with the silent satisfaction of someone who has guarded a valuable secret for far too long.

“You’re still a terrible mentor,” she commented, looking at the pill bottle House was playing with between his fingers, “But I suppose that’s the price of being a genius. Spencer says your last diagnosis on Whipple’s disease was statistically improbable, but brilliant.”

“Spencer is a romantic about data,” grumbled House, although the mention of the young doctor seemed to soften his expression. “Tell him that the improbable is still possible if the rest of the idiots stop looking at the common symptoms. What time does his class or whatever he’s teaching end?”

Wilson laughed, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“House, don’t be modest. He’s been reviewing Reid’s seminar itinerary since yesterday…” he told his goddaughter, with a certain complicity. “I think he’s more excited to talk to him than to see you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” muttered House, though he didn’t deny it. “I just want to make sure his IQ hasn’t dropped from spending so much time with cops.”

She smiled, looking at her father with that mixture of patience and sharpness that only she and Stacy possessed.

“Spencer is fine, Dad. In fact, he’s also eager to see you. He brought a couple of books on criminal neurology that he thinks will interest you.”

“Brains and books. Sometimes I wonder if you didn’t design him in a lab, so I couldn’t find any flaws,” House grumbled, although the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Well, but if anything… a skinny nerd.”

For Gregory, affection was a currency he rarely minted, but Spencer Reid was the exception to all his rules of misanthropy.

It wasn’t just the fact that Spencer could recite Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine from memory or that they shared a worldview based on pure logic; it was that Spencer was the only man House considered “worthy” of his daughter. In the diagnostician’s mind, only an intellect capable of processing the world at his speed could understand and protect the complexity of the woman sitting in front of him.

“Spencer isn’t a project, dad” she replied, softening her gaze. “He’s far from it. And it doesn’t matter if he’s a weird kid, that’s how I like him.”

Her relationship with Reid was a sanctuary of calm in the middle of the chaos of their respective professions. They had met at a conference on criminal law and neuroscience in D.C., and what began as a debate on the validity of criminal profiling in court ended with them talking until dawn in a 24-hour café. Spencer loved her ferocity in court as much as she loved the way he lost track of time when explaining anything that fascinated him.

He was the perfect balance: Wilson’s sweetness combined with House’s brainpower, without the latter’s bitterness. Two of the men she loved most in the world.

“I only like talking to him because he’s one of the few who doesn’t make me want to use the cane against his skull after five minutes,” admitted House, as close as he would get to confessing affection. “And the fact that he survived three dinners with Stacy without suffering a psychotic break makes him an acceptable candidate for tonight’s dinner.”

“You call him ‘acceptable’, but my godfather is right,” she added, pointing with her chin at the oncologist. “You’re dying to argue with him about that neurology article you mentioned last time.”

Wilson nodded with a mocking smile.

“Yesterday, he tried to convince me that Reid’s analysis of serial killers’ behavioral patterns is ‘slightly less stupid’ than average. In House’s language, that means he considers him his intellectual successor.”

“Enough,” House cut in, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you have things to do? Something along the lines of treating dying patients?”

Wilson raised his hands in a gesture of peaceful surrender, stealing one last cookie from House’s desk before walking toward the door.

“I’m going. Someone in this hospital has to at least pretend they care about medical ethics,” Wilson said, giving his goddaughter a playful wink. “See you at dinner, sweetheart.”

When the door closed behind him, the silence left in the office felt different — more intimate, stripped of the audience House so often used for his performances. She shifted on the edge of the desk, watching as her father spun a pencil between his fingers with mechanical ease.

“Well?” House asked, without looking up from the pencil. “Which luxury hotel did they put you up in? I assume the FBI has a halfway decent budget for their brilliant minds — at least enough to cover sheets with a reasonable thread count.”

“Spencer and I rented a different place. It’s a small hotel near the station, nothing fancy,” she replied, dismissing it with a small gesture. “He prefers quiet places where he can read without the city traffic screaming through the window.”

House nodded vaguely, and for a second, his gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall.

“Then you can go,” he said, with his usual brusqueness — though there was no poison in the words. “You probably have bags to unpack or some penal code to highlight while the genius dazzles his audience.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she crossed her arms and studied him with a tilted smile — the one House knew meant she wasn’t going to do what he said.

“Actually, I was thinking of staying here for a while,” she said softly. “If you don’t mind.”

House arched a brow, the pencil stalling between his fingers.

“Here?” he repeated, gesturing toward the worn-out couch. “What for? It’s boring…”

“I want to spend time with you, Dad,” she interrupted gently — and the honesty in her voice disarmed the sarcastic comeback forming on House’s tongue. “Spencer won’t finish his seminar until late, and it’s been months since we’ve been in the same room for more than ten minutes.”

House stay quiet. He pretended the suggestion annoyed him beyond reason. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and stared at the whiteboard, crowded with crossed-out symptoms.

“The couch is uncomfortable,” he grumbled at last, retreating into his familiar mask of disdain. “But if you insist on wasting your afternoon watching me humiliate my employees, I guess I can’t throw you out. At least not until your boyfriend shows up and gives me a good excuse to stop working.”

She smiled, knowing that was as close to an I love you as she was going to get.

“Deal,” she replied, settling into the chair. “I promise not to object to anything you say… unless it’s illegal.”

“Then prepare to object a lot,” House concluded with a half-smirk, turning back to his file.

Almost an hour had passed since House had sunk into a grave, self-imposed silence in front of his monitor. Feeling the stale air of the office, she finally slipped out to find something to drink. But when she returned, two sodas in hand, she found the sanctuary empty. House’s chair was still spinning slightly, but his cane — and his acid presence — were gone.

She walked the halls at an easy pace, assuming House had wandered off into some forbidden corner of the hospital, until the echo of raised voices stopped her near what looked like a lab. The door was half-open, and she leaned against the frame, in shadow, watching the three doctors move around the table with test tubes like the pieces of a clock that refused to fit.

“If it’s not an environmental toxin, then it has to be a cross-reaction,” Cameron was saying — tired, but stubborn — pointing at the lab results. “The fever went down, but the creatinine keeps climbing. If we don’t find the source, his kidneys are going to crash in a few hours.”

“House thinks he’s lying,” Foreman added, wiping a line off the whiteboard with a sharp, frustrated motion. “He thinks the patient is hiding a trip or some chemical exposure. He’s obsessed with the idea. But sometimes people just don’t know what’s killing them.”

“Or maybe House isn’t seeing clearly because his head is somewhere else,” Chase said, perched on the table, twirling a marker between his fingers. “House is distracted. And I don’t blame him. His daughter’s still here.”

“And what does that have to do with the differential?” Foreman shot back, though his eyes betrayed curiosity. “House has diagnosed cases during trials, crises, and overdoses. A family visit shouldn’t throw him off.”

“It’s not just a visit,” Chase insisted, glancing toward the glass door with almost inappropriate intensity. “It’s a reminder that House was once… young. Human. Did you see how he looks at her? There’s no cynicism. There’s… respect. More than Wilson gets sometimes. And—” he lowered his voice, smiling faintly “she’s stunning. Like someone took the best parts of House, scrubbed off the bitterness and wrapped them in a three-thousand-dollar dress. Genetics is a mystery. In this case, it’s a miracle.”

“Chase, please,” Cameron muttered, tugging at her lab coat, though her eyes remained fixed on the board. “A man who hides behind pain to avoid connection doesn’t exactly scream ‘family man.’ Honestly, it feels like she’s the one keeping him in line. It’s unsettling.”

“She’s an anomaly,” Chase concluded, stopping the marker, still fascinated. “Elegant, sharp, and I’m betting she’s brilliant. It’s like House tried to build a version of himself who could actually survive the real world — without the cane and without insulting everyone in sight.”

“And again,” Cameron said, “what does that have to do with the differential?”

“Maybe she’s proof House still has secrets,” Foreman replied, focusing again on the creatinine numbers. “Like the rest of us.”

The team dynamic was strange — like watching fragmented versions of her father: Cameron was the empathy he tried to suppress; Foreman, the rigid logic he weaponized; Chase, the ambition he despised and admired at once.

Finally, she decided the truce was over. She pushed the door gently and stepped inside, bursting the bubble of clinical tension. All three froze — as if the diagnosis itself had just walked into the room.

“You know, if three brilliant people can’t find the answer, maybe it’s because you’re asking the wrong question,” she said, setting the sodas on an empty shelf.

Cameron jumped. Foreman immediately rebuilt his professional posture.

“I thought the old man was with you,” she added, glancing at the scattered labs. “Guess he dumped the dirty work on you while he finds something more entertaining.”

“It’s part of the method,” Foreman replied with a tight smile. “How long were you standing there?”

“Just got here,” she lied, taking a seat and crossing her legs. “I was looking for him — but since you’re here… mind if I stay? As long as I’m not in the way.”

“Not at all,” Chase said quickly, smile brightening. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

She nodded politely, accepting the kindness as pure formality. Somehow, her presence seemed to steady the room; even Foreman softened.

“So,” Foreman said, studying her, “I’m guessing you’re not a doctor.”

“Lawyer,” she answered.

“And what kind of cases?”

“Criminal and constitutional law,” she said — calm but firm, the tone of someone used to having the last word. “High-complexity litigation. I guess obsession with evidence and truth runs in the genes.”

Cameron studied her carefully, searching for bitterness — finding none.

“It’s hard to picture him as a father,” Cameron murmured. “We see the man who prefers a microscope to a person. Was he… like that with everything?”

She paused, eyes on a specimen container, smiling faintly.

“There were no bedtime stories, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “And I don’t remember him being affectionate. Not in the conventional way, anyway. He taught me the world would lie — but facts wouldn’t. That was his way of protecting me: giving me tools so no one could fool me.”

Then she leaned forward — sharp, almost predatory — and the cold clarity in her blue eyes was pure House.

“And do you resent him?” Chase asked.

“Resentment is just intellectual laziness,” she replied. “It assumes I expected him to be someone else. I learned early to accept people’s pathologies for what they are. He’s not a man of hugs — he’s a man of truths. Truth hurts, but it doesn’t betray you.”

Chase nodded, genuinely struck. Cameron wasn’t convinced.

“But you’re his daughter,” Cameron said softly. “There has to be something more. Some moment where he was just… Dad.”

She set the papers down and glanced at the ceiling, searching.

“When I was ten, I broke my arm,” she said. “He didn’t tell me it’d be okay. He didn’t bring me a toy. He sat beside me and explained exactly how the bone would heal and why pain mattered. Understanding it took away the fear. That was his version of parenting — giving me control through knowledge.”

Foreman sighed — half admiration, half resignation.

“It’s the same way he treats us,” he said. “Throws us into the fire so we learn not to burn. The difference is — we can quit. You can’t.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to. We don’t choose our parents.”

“No, we don’t,” Chase murmured.

A beat passed — heavy.

“At least he gave you answers,” Chase added quietly. “Most fathers just give you the pain — and expect you to guess why you deserved it.”

She looked at him — seeing the fracture beneath the charm.

“Can I ask you something?” she said suddenly. “How do you really see him?”

“As a boss or—?”

“I mean his mind. His leg. Him.”

The room fell silent. Foreman stared out the window. Cameron’s gaze dropped. Chase fidgeted.

“He’s addicted to puzzles,” Foreman said finally. “Medicine keeps him from thinking about pain. But it burns through everything around him.”

“I think he’s decided loneliness is the price of integrity,” Cameron added softly. “Sometimes it feels like he’s waiting for someone strong enough to stay.”

“I can’t be that person,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t want that.”

“Has he ever asked?” Cameron asked.

She shook her head.

“No. And if he did, something would be very wrong.”

“Seriously?” Foreman frowned.

“House doesn’t ask for help,” she said. “He dissects it, mocks it, or ignores it. Asking would mean losing control.”

Chase hesitated.

“And you never tried… getting closer?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Once.”

Cameron lifted her eyes.

“What happened?”

“He shut down,” she said simply. “I learned there are doors you don’t force.”

Foreman nodded slowly.

“So you respect the distance.”

“It’s the only way to stay,” she concluded. “And he knows it.”

The sentence lingered, uncomfortable, with the weight of a definitive diagnosis.

“Good,” said a voice from the doorway, dry, without preamble. “Did you already solve the case, or is this a social gathering?”

All three doctors turned immediately.

“Because,” House went on, walking in with his cane, “if you’re going to waste time talking about me, at least do it while you work.”

Cameron closed her mouth, surprised.

“We were—”

“—no,” House cut her off. “You were sitting. That doesn’t count.”

Foreman lowered his gaze to the file. “Creatinine levels are still elevated.”

“What a relief,” House replied. “I was afraid you’d decided to solve it with introspection.”

His gaze slid to her. Brief. Measured.

“And you,” he added, “are you done auditing my personal life, or is there still some flaw left to discuss?”

She didn’t flinch. “I just worry about you.”

House snorted. “Well, don’t. Or do it quietly, because right now I need you to work,” House finished, tapping the floor lightly with the cane. Then he barely motioned toward her with his eyes. “And you can’t do it with her here. She distracts you.”

Their blue eyes met for a second; both knew he was right. She stood up without arguing, with that ease only people who know every unspoken rule by heart have.

“I brought you a soda, by the way,” she said as she passed, as if it were a minor detail.

Then she simply left.

In the team’s conference room, the atmosphere was lighter, almost domestic.

Hours later, she was sitting at one end of the table with an open book in her hands, mentally underlining an idea while the portable coffeemaker finished bubbling. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the clinical scent of the hospital, creating a strangely comforting contradiction.

She served herself a cup calmly, as if she weren’t in a hospital at all but in a stolen break from the world, and returned to her reading. The silence was comfortable; no one seemed to need to break it.

The door opened with a soft creak.

Chase walked in with a couple of test results in his hand and a focused expression, too focused to be casual. He stopped when he saw her, surprised just enough for it to show.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t know you were here,” he said, lowering his voice out of reflex.

“It’s quieter than the cafeteria,” she replied, without fully lifting her eyes from the book.

Chase set the tests on the table and went to the board, checking some numbers with a frown. The sound of the marker against the surface broke the silence.

There were a few minutes of analysis, and then he wiped off a figure with the back of his hand, leaving the marker on the ledge afterward. He hesitated for a second, as if weighing the room before speaking.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

She closed the book slowly, lifting her gaze. “Sure.”

He hesitated just a second. “Your mother… what is she like?”

The answer didn’t come immediately. She set the book on the table, laced her fingers together and stared at some undefined point on the glass, as if arranging an old memory.

“Actually,” she began, with an unexpected half-smile, “she’s a lot like my father.”

Chase frowned, surprised. “Really?”

“A lot,” she continued. “Less ruthless, no doubt. And with a steadier moral compass. But just as brilliant, just as incisive… the difference is she knows when to stop.”

She looked back at him. “I guess that’s why they could love each other. And why they couldn’t stay together.”

Chase watched her a moment longer than strictly necessary. There was no hurry in his expression, no lightness; it was a steady, almost careful attention.

“I guess that explains why you don’t quite look like either of them,” he said at last, with a faint smile. “You have the best of both… and none of their most destructive habits.”

He shrugged, as if downplaying it, but didn’t look away.

“You don’t even know me. You can’t know that.”

“Yeah, huh… well, you’re right,” he added, lowering his voice a bit. He hadn’t expected such a sharp reply.

He hesitated a second and then added, with an awkward honesty he couldn’t quite hide: “I met House before I met you. And still, now that I hear you talk, it makes me wish it had been the other way around.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. She watched him more closely, as if that sentence had just rearranged something inside her head. Then she tilted her face slightly.

“Are you flirting with me?” she asked, without accusation.

Chase opened his mouth, closed it, and a crooked smile —more sincere than rehearsed— escaped him. “Is it working?”

She shook her head slowly, without losing her composure. “No.”

Chase let out a short breath of laughter through his nose, accepting defeat without drama.

“What a shame,” he said softly. “I would’ve loved it if it had.”

She held his gaze. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. And in that minimal gesture it became clear that, even if it didn’t work, she had noticed.

And that, for Chase, was already something.

When he picked up the files and headed toward the door, he stopped halfway, as if the thought had hit him when there was no turning back. He turned to her, still not giving up.

“Well… if you ever come back to New Jersey,” he said, shrugging, “we could have a coffee. Something that doesn’t come out of a hospital machine.”

He didn’t add anything else. He didn’t ask for an answer.

She looked at him calmly, without surprise, without promise. The silence stayed between them, deliberate.

In the end, she was the one who stood, picking up the empty cup. “I’m going to get something to eat,” she said naturally, as if she hadn’t just left a sentence hanging in the air.

Chase nodded. “Good idea.”

She walked past him toward the door. She said nothing more. But when she left, the smell of coffee stayed behind… and any answer did too.

It was already late afternoon and, any minute now, the moon would appear in the sky. Foreman walked down the hallway with the file open, reading without much interest. Chase walked beside him, but his attention was clearly elsewhere; his hands were in the pockets of his lab coat and his gaze was lost on the shiny hallway floor.

“I told her that if she ever came back to New Jersey…,” Chase said at last, pretending casualness, “we could have a coffee.”

Foreman looked up, intrigued. “With who?”

“House’s daughter.”

He opened his eyes slightly, unsurprised but a bit taken aback, and then continued: “And what did she say?”

Chase let out a short, uneasy breath. “She didn’t say yes,” he admitted. “But she didn’t say no either.”

Foreman gave a crooked smile. “Chase, that’s not ambiguity. That’s courtesy.”

They were about to keep walking when, ahead, something caught both their attention. Near the elevator, she had stopped when she heard a voice that didn’t belong to the hospital. She turned and, upon seeing the newcomer, her expression changed completely.

There was no doubt, no calculation. She smiled with immediate warmth and crossed the hallway almost at a run. The man —tall, lanky, with a work bag over his shoulder— barely had time to set it aside before she threw herself into his arms. He wrapped her up and kissed her with intimate familiarity, unhurried, as if the gesture had always belonged to them.

She responded with the same devotion, laughing, clinging to him as if the rest of the world had stopped mattering.

Chase stood frozen. Foreman frowned, watching the scene with analytic attention.

“Well,” he murmured. “That was… fast.”

Farther ahead, the man rested his forehead against hers, saying something that made her smile even more. Then they walked together down the hallway, his arm around her shoulders, she talking to him with a closeness that left no room for innocent interpretations.

Foreman closed the file with a dry tap. “I think we have our answer.”

Chase said nothing.

“I suppose,” Foreman added, without looking at him, “that coffee wasn’t on the agenda.”

A pause.

“Sorry, Chase,” he went on, now with a soft but inevitable teasing.

They resumed walking toward House’s office. Behind them, her laughter echoed a moment longer down the hallway —long enough for Chase to know, with uncomfortable clarity— that the invitation had never really had a chance.

Meanwhile, Reid and House seemed wrapped in their own world.

“I thought you’d be stuck with your father.”

“I was,” she replied, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her hands didn’t let go. “But now you’re here.”

Spencer watched her intently, as if there were nothing else worth studying in the building.

“How did it go? How was the seminar?”

“It was… efficient,” he said. “Lots of profiles, lots of predictable questions. But I finished earlier than expected.”

“And you came straight here?”

“Yes,” she admitted, lowering her voice a little. “I wanted to see you. And make sure you were okay.”

She smiled —that smile she reserved for almost no one. “I was. Now I’m great.”

Spencer tilted his head, brushing his forehead against hers, and kissed her skin with a delicacy that contrasted with the clinical setting.

“How is he?” he asked cautiously.

She let the air out slowly. “As well as he can be. He’s still himself.”

Spencer nodded, as if that answer were enough. He pulled her closer to his side. “I know he’s glad to see you.”

They walked on, murmuring little things —irrelevant to anyone else. Around them, the hospital kept moving with mechanical precision, unaware that, for a moment, someone had found peace right in the middle of it all.

“I met his doctors,” she blurted suddenly.

Without meaning to, their steps had led them toward the cafeteria. They both sat at one of the empty tables, face to face.

“And how were they?”

“They’re smart, efficient, capable… my father values those things. They’re also kind, but that’s something I value more than he does.”

A soft laugh escaped Spencer.

“Oh, and one of them asked me out.”

He turned his head slightly. “Out like… on a date or something?”

“A coffee,” she replied, shrugging. “But obviously I didn’t say yes. I just thought it was funny.”

“Why?”

“I mean—can you imagine trying to hit on your boss’s daughter the day you just met her? Who does that?”

Spencer smiled. “He’s brave.”

“He’s an idiot.”

A couple of laughs escaped Spencer; he had to bring his hand to his mouth to hold them back.

“You sound exactly like your father.”

“That’s why he’s my father,” she replied, smiling too, raising her eyebrows as if the simple fact amused her even more than she wanted to admit.

Suddenly, Spencer’s hand slid across the table, gently taking hers.

“I don’t blame him. The doctor, I mean.”

He paused, almost shy.

“You’re beautiful. I’d risk losing my job just to go out with you, too.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head with a playful smile. “You know you don’t need to flirt with me, right? You’re already my boyfriend.”

Spencer stared at her, a mischievous spark lighting behind his glasses. His hand squeezed hers softly, as if that simple gesture could say everything he was thinking.

“If you have a flower at home… you don’t stop watering it just because it’s already yours, do you?”

She watched him carefully, the way you look at someone you love: the line of his jaw, the way his eyes caught the light, the gentleness in his fingers. She realized Spencer looked especially handsome that day, with that mix of focus and tenderness that always disarmed her.

Without noticing, she leaned toward him a little, almost as if she wanted to kiss him —but didn’t; a small, intimate gesture.

She watched him closely, smiling softly. “You look so cute when you say smart things.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, amused, but didn’t look away. “Well, it’s kind of my thing,” he replied, with a mix of pride and a blush.

Just then, the cafeteria door opened and Dr. Cameron walked in, carrying a plate with salad and what looked like juice. When she saw her, her face lit up immediately.

“Cameron!” she exclaimed, raising her hand in a greeting that seemed more enthusiastic than usual. Then she turned to the man. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

“Sweetheart, this is Dr. Cameron, my father’s best. Doctor, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, my boyfriend.”

The woman looked surprised, though she didn’t know if it was because she’d been called the best on the team or because of the new piece of information she’d just learned.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. Cameron shook it, immediately noticing the warmth of his smile and the calm he transmitted.

“Are you taking a break?”

“Yes. I need five minutes.”

“If you want, sit with us,” she said, gesturing to the table they’d been at earlier. “There’s plenty of space.”

Although Cameron felt a bit embarrassed, it seemed rude to refuse the invitation.

The conversation flowed easily: pleasant, calm, and very natural. From time to time, Cameron couldn’t help but look at the newcomer for a few seconds, with discreet admiration. She noticed the way Spencer listened carefully, how natural his gestures were, and how his voice was soft but steady. They didn’t make her feel silly or embarrassed for anything she said; they genuinely wanted to talk with her.

When the glass of juice was almost empty, Chase and Foreman walked into the cafeteria, each with their usual air of impassiveness. But as soon as they saw the scene, they couldn’t help stopping.

If they had kept walking, maybe no one would’ve noticed them; however, two grown men standing in the middle of the cafeteria were hard to ignore.

“Damn, they saw us…”

“You’ve got no escape, man,” Foreman laughed, waving at the group and walking toward them.

He watched his friend greet the group and sit next to Cameron, as if it were a planned or usual meeting.

Chase took a step forward, adjusting his coat with that almost instinctive gesture he always used when trying to look calm. After a few steps, he appeared in front of everyone.

“Well…” he began, attempting a casual smile, though his blue eyes couldn’t hide his curiosity. “Who do we have here?”

“Oh, honey, this is Dr. Chase, another one of my father’s employees. Robert, this is my boyfriend, Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Just… Spencer is fine.”

Chase returned the gesture, curious.

“What’s your specialty?” “I asked him the same question,” Cameron confessed, amused. “I actually work for the FBI, in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m only a doctor in title,” he gave a small smile. “I don’t practice medicine.”

The men at the table nodded; everything made sense. House’s daughter —brilliant, sharp, hard to impress— could only be with someone who played in the same intellectual league.

In the end, they also ended up staying to eat something. Nothing glamorous: cafeteria trays, soup that was too salty, lukewarm potatoes, and coffee that tasted more like an obligation than a break. Unfortunately, Foreman and Chase weren’t as lucky as their female colleague in enjoying the downtime, because barely ten minutes had passed when their pagers started beeping.

“The patient went into respiratory arrest…” announced Foreman, although the three of them had access to the same information.

As expected, the doctors immediately stood up, ready to run wherever the patient was.

“We’re really sorry…” “It’s okay,” you cut them off, not waiting for explanations. You knew it wasn’t personal. “Go.”

The three of them gave you an approving look and then disappeared. Suddenly it was just you and Spencer again, in the quiet cafeteria.

“That’s why I didn’t become a doctor,” she murmured, staring at the door they had just gone through.

He, still beside her, watched her more closely.

“One second you’re here, hanging out with friends and… the next you have to run because someone is dying. That’s not a life.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that I do the same thing? Having to… you know, leave suddenly because I have a case?”

“It’s different with you,” she said, this time focusing on him. “You spend days in another state, you have to work… but even then, you still find a way to be here, to be present. It’s not the same as running after patients.”

Spencer frowned slightly, with a mix of concern and care.

“And doesn’t it worry you that… that you’ll get tired of this pace?”

She looked straight at him, a serious glint in her eyes.

“Are you afraid I’m repeating patterns?”

“Yes,” he admitted, with an almost inaudible sigh. “I mean… you say it’s different, but I don’t think it is.”

She was about to ask what he meant, or how he’d reached that conclusion; the question was already on her lips when he spoke again:

“I just… wouldn’t like it if one day you woke up and realized you chose a man just like your father.”

She frowned slightly.

“You’re not like him. My mom left him because he simply didn’t care about us,” she said calmly. “After the accident with his leg, he shut himself off from everything. He pushed us away. You call me every night, you’re here today. You’re nothing like him.”

She tried to soften the mood with a smile and, with both hands, gently took his arm, as if inviting him back to solid ground.

Now, the thoughtful one was Spencer.

“Although, to be honest…” he murmured, staring at an undefined point ahead of him, “it would be worse if I’m the one who ends up repeating patterns.”

A short, dry laugh escaped his throat.

“My father left my mother when she was already sick and…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, as if he didn’t want to go into details they both already knew. “Well, in this scenario… let’s just say you’re not exactly the one with the genetic disadvantage.”

She blinked, surprised by the bluntness of the confession. Silence settled between them for a few seconds —heavy but intimate.

“Are you afraid of that?” she asked at last, in a low voice. “That there are only two paths for us?”

“Yes,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I also think it’s not written. If we work on this… if we try, maybe we won’t have to choose a tragic ending.”

He smiled faintly.

“We can build our own misfortunes.”

They both laughed softly, as if the joke lightened the weight of the conversation only a little.

“So… you see a future with me,” she said, almost as if realizing it right then.

Spencer frowned slightly, more surprised than anything.

“If I didn’t…” he looked at her for a moment. “Then why would I be with you?”

She looked at him seriously this time. The irony that they were imagining cruel breakups —with marriage included in those tragic scenarios— was something that would have bitterly delighted her father.

A small silence followed, as if both were processing the intensity of the conversation. Then Spencer frowned slightly, curiosity softening the tension.

“Was it the blond one?” he asked suddenly.

She looked at him, confused, raising an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“The doctor who flirted with you… was it the blond one?” he added, leaning slightly toward her, with that look that searched for an honest, quick answer.

She blinked for a second, trying to process the question after everything they’d just talked about, and then let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh.

“Yes. But I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“I know,” he clarified, with a slight smile. “I’m saying it because I sensed some hostility from him. And if it wasn’t him, then I’d have to worry about why a doctor I barely know was treating me like that.”

She was about to answer when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out, saw the name on the screen, and her expression changed immediately.

She lifted it to her ear.

“Yes?”

There was silence, broken only by her held breath. Her gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment as she listened. She didn’t say anything else: just nodded once, twice, lips pressed together.

When she hung up, she exhaled slowly.

“Well…” she murmured, putting the phone away. “Looks like the old man isn’t making it to dinner.”

Spencer didn’t need to ask why —he had seen the doctors running minutes earlier. Instead, he just asked if she was okay.

“I already told you, he’s like that,” she replied lightly. “I’m used to it.”

Even though she tried to downplay it, Spencer could tell she was affected. Maybe this time, she actually had wanted him to have time.

But Reid, with that privileged brain and that almost primitive need to find solutions, murmured:

“Let’s stay here. We can order something for dinner and… keep him company. That way, we still spend time with him.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, happily.

Sometimes, when she thought she couldn’t possibly love him more, he managed it anyway.

“I thought you’d already be on your way to The Highlawn.”

House didn’t even look up at first; he was standing, leaning on his cane, staring at the whiteboard as if the words might confess themselves.

“We want to stay,” she announced with a faint smile.

The two of them had already crossed the threshold of his office. She closed the door gently while he stepped a little farther inside, as if he didn’t want to interrupt —but didn’t want to leave, either.

House blinked, tilting his head.

“You’re trading fresh seafood and wine for hospital fast food?”

She shrugged, placing her bag on the side table.

“I’m your daughter. Don’t expect me to be completely sane.”

He let out a short laugh —not sarcastic, not cruel. Real. Almost warm.

“Fine. If that’s what you want…”

“I can help with the case,” Spencer interjected, now sitting in front of the desk, fingers intertwined with measured calm. “If you want me to.”

House looked at him over the cane.

“You just finished teaching a seminar.”

Spencer nodded slightly.

“Yes. That’s exactly why. I want a distraction.”

House shook his head slowly, with a mix of surprise and resignation, as if that were more baffling than any strange symptom he’d seen that week.

“And he’s the man who loves me,” she added, leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed with a half-smile. “Don’t expect him to be completely sane either.”

House sighed, but his eyes brightened for a second —somewhere between amusement and acceptance— and that night, he allowed himself to feel lucky.

Days passed. She went back to D.C. Everything moved on.

Chase was listening to the patient’s chest. He took notes, checked the monitor, adjusted the dosage on the chart, and got ready to leave the room.

When he opened the door, House was already leaning against the frame, as if he’d been there a while.

“Is he better?” House asked, without coming in.

“He’s breathing with less difficulty. The medication is working,” Chase replied, writing something else in the chart.

They nodded almost at the same time. Chase took a step to go, but House suddenly spoke:

“By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Chase stopped.

“Notice what?”

He barely looked at him.

“The way you looked at her.”

Silence. No dramatic gestures. Just the hallway, the monitor, the distant hospital noise.

Chase lowered his gaze slightly, accepting it without arguing.

“It was… inevitable.”

House didn’t respond. He waited. Chase breathed, half-smiling —without sarcasm.

“If she weren’t with someone who’s a genius… someone you respect… and someone she clearly loves…” he glanced at him. “Do you think I would’ve had a chance?”

House actually seemed to think about it.

It took him a few seconds.

“The truth? No.”

Chase let out a very short laugh. Not hurt. More… resigned.

“Okay”

House pushed off the frame and started walking.

“Back to work.”

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. But it’s not awkward. It’s never awkward with him. It’s the kind of silence that lets you lean back in the seat and just be. Maybe because it’s Zayne. Maybe because it’s always been like this—him showing up when you don’t know you need it, his quiet presence doing more than words ever could.

You lose track of time as the city lights melt into black highways and winding roads. Eventually, the skyline disappears behind you, replaced by stars and the hush of a world asleep. And then the car slows, turning onto a narrow path you didn’t even see coming.

A hill. A view. Zayne parks the car without a word, kills the engine, and everything goes impossibly quiet. When you open your door, the cold hits first, and then the sight.

The city sprawls below like a living thing, pulsing gold and silver and shadow. It's beautiful. Painfully so. And somehow, it feels like the kind of view you’re not supposed to find by accident.

He tosses you a drink from the back seat—your favorite one, of course—and leans against the hood of the car, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon like he’s guarding something precious.

You take a sip and join him, hip brushing his. It’s a long time before he speaks.

“Found this place a couple years ago,” his voice is low, almost hesitant. “I was driving after a shift and needed some quiet to clear my head.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you, though. His eyes are on the stars, on the lights below, anywhere but you.

“I come here sometimes,” he adds, after a little bit. “Not sure why I brought you.”

That stings, for half a second. Until you realize what he’s actually saying. He doesn’t bring people here. He didn’t even tell you where you were going. And yet here you are, on sacred ground. In a place he keeps for himself only, now sharing it with you.

You look at him more closely now. There’s something carved into the lines of his face tonight. Tiredness, maybe. A kind of weight he carries behind those eyes. You’ve always known Zayne was quiet. Reserved. Difficult to read. But this is something else. This is him offering a piece of himself without asking anything in return.

“Do you ever think about how much people hide?” his voice is barely a whisper. “How much they carry without saying anything?”

You blink. He’s not asking about people. Not really.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “All the time.”

He nods once. And then again, more to himself. “You do that too,” he glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

A small, almost-smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. And for a second, everything in you aches. Because he’s here. With you. Opening the door just enough for you to see what he never shows anyone. Not his patients. Not his colleagues. Maybe not even himself.

And he doesn’t want anything from you. He’s not asking you to fix it. He’s not seeking comfort. He’s giving it. In the only way he knows how.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’ve known Zayne your whole life. You’ve fought beside him. Grown up beside him. And still—still—he finds ways to surprise you. To shatter you, gently. To make your heart ache not because he’s hurt you, but because he’s trying so hard not to.

You watch his profile, wind brushing through his dark hair, arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You want to touch his hand. You don’t. But your chest is heavy in the best, most painful way.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t ask why. He just hands you the last sip of your drink, and when your fingers brush, he doesn’t pull away.

The quiet settles between you like an old friend, soft and undemanding. No pressure to fill the silence, no need to prove anything. Only the whisper of wind through trees, the distant hum of the city below, and the steady presence of Zayne beside you.

You sit on the hood of the car, shoulders nearly touching, the chilled metal beneath you radiating the night’s calm into your bones. Your fingers cradle the drink he gave you, long gone now, but you keep the can close anyway. The faint imprint of his warmth lingers where your hands brushed, and for some reason, it feels significant.

He shifts beside you, not quite looking your way, but there’s a gentle expectation in the air. As if he’s leaving space for something, should you choose to fill it.

So you do.

“Do you remember that one summer,” you murmur, voice low, “when Caleb dared me to climb that stupid rusted water tower? The one out by the school field?”

Zayne huffs a breath through his nose, a quiet laugh. “You were what—ten?”

“Nine,” you correct, your smile curling unconsciously. “And halfway up, I slipped and screamed bloody murder. Thought I was gonna die.”

“You didn’t really scream for help,” he finally glances at you. His eyes catch faint reflections of the starlight—green and brown, glass and fire. “You called my name.”

Your heart does a quiet, traitorous thing in your chest. You hadn’t remembered that part.

“I ran the whole way down,” he continues, quieter now, like the memory plays behind his eyes. “Scraped my knees on that broken fence trying to get to you.”

“I didn’t even fall,” you whisper, laughing despite yourself. “You climbed up and held onto me like the whole tower was gonna collapse.”

“Felt like it might,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “You were shaking.”

You swallow. “You didn’t let go.”

His gaze flicks to you again, lingering this time.

It makes you shiver, and it’s not from the memory, but rather from the way he looks at you now. The breeze has picked up, and while the night is beautiful, it’s colder now that you’re not moving, your body slowly giving in to the chill. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to make it obvious.

But of course he notices. Zayne always notices. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders. The movement is fluid, casual, like it means nothing. But it does. It means everything to you, this silent gesture of care.

The fabric still carries his warmth, the faint scent of his cologne. It's something clean, understated, something grounding that makes your throat tighten. His fingers brush the sides of your arms as he settles it on you, and you freeze for just a second, stunned at the intimacy of it. You expected it somehow, because you’ve come to know he’s like this. Quietly observant. Subtly thoughtful. Always giving without ever asking for anything back.

Still, it doesn’t stop the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You’re grateful for the darkness.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

He doesn’t tease you. He just gives you a soft nod and turns his eyes back to the view, his expression unreadable.

After a long pause, you glance at him again. “How’s the hospital?”

A tired sigh escapes him before he answers, the sound barely there. “Busy. Always busy.” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes I wish I could be in two places at once.”

“Zayne…” you say quietly, guilt tugging at the edge of your voice. “You’re exhausted. You didn’t have to bring me here.”

His gaze shifts, hazel eyes finding yours, warm and steady. “I wanted to.”

You blink.

“I needed this,” he continues softly. “And... I wanted to spend time with you. You’re important to me. So is our friendship.”

And there it is. That word. Friendship.

You nod, trying to smile. Trying to be casual about it. But something in you recoils—a quiet sting blooming behind your ribs. You know he didn’t mean it to hurt. It’s just… you don’t see him as just your friend. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

He watches you too closely.

“What was that look?” his voice is light but his eyes are searching too intensely.

“Look?” you echo, too fast.

“That face you just made.”

You shake your head, laugh too breezy. “What face? You’re imagining things, Dr. Zayne. Must be the exhaustion catching up to you.” You go for a joke.

“Mm.” He doesn’t believe you. You know it. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like one of his patient charts. “You always make that face when you’re hiding something.”

“I do not,” you nudge his shoulder.

He said it so simply—you’re important to me—but the words sank too deeply, too quickly, before you’re ready.

You smile, or at least you try to. But something flickers in your expression that you don’t quite manage to catch in time.

Zayne’s gaze shifts to you, a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like he’s tracking a rhythm he can’t quite place. His brow furrows slightly, not in frustration, but in that quiet, analytical way of his—like he’s trying to feel around the edges of something unsaid. Like he's trying to figure you out.

“Are you really okay?” he asks carefully.

You’re already retreating a little, your tone softening into something too easy, too airy.

“Yeah,” you give him a light nudge with your shoulder. “I’m fine. Just—remembering stuff. You got all nostalgic, now I’m catching it.”

You even add a soft laugh, hoping it’ll smooth things over. “Let’s not get too sappy out here. Next thing you know you’ll be reciting poetry under the stars.”

But he doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you. That Zayne kind of look—steady and impossibly quiet, like he’s listening for something even you haven’t said yet. Like he’s searching for the truth under the words you keep hiding behind.

And then his eyes lower slightly, flicking to your mouth for a second too long.

Your heart trips. He blinks once, slow. “You’re not fine, and you can't lie to me about it,” he's not accusing but you notice he's certain about it, “You got quiet all of a sudden.”

You try to deflect again, smiling. “Maybe I’m just cold,” you tease. “Your jacket’s warm, but your vibe is kind of serious tonight.”

But Zayne… doesn’t let it go. He holds your gaze like he’s bracing for something. And then there’s a subtle change in his posture. The breath he takes is deeper, steadier. His hand flexes slightly on the edge of the hood. And something in his expression changes.

You notice it isn't tentative nor unsure. It's the decisive kind of look, one that almost screams certainty. He leans in just the slightest bit, and your body stills.

“I’m going to ask something,” his voice is barely above a whisper, “and if I’m wrong—forget I did.”

You don’t even have time to respond. Because the next second, he does something you never expected Zayne—your Zayne—to do without hesitation.

He kisses you. With no warning, he presses his mouth to yours, sure and sudden and real, catching you halfway between breath and thought. It’s not rough, but there’s urgency in it—like the kind of leap you take when you’ve been holding something in for too long and finally can’t anymore.

Your eyes fly open in the shock of it, then flutter shut just as fast, all the air pulled from your lungs like he reached right in and stole it.

His hand hovers just beside your hand, not touching, not trapping you—but there, like he’s still waiting to know if he read this wrong.

But you’re not pulling away. You can’t. Because everything you’ve been quietly, hopelessly feeling for him just caught fire in your chest—and now it’s on your lips, too.

You don’t even know how long the kiss lasts. It might be seconds. Might be a lifetime. All you’re sure of is that the world has fallen away, and you are kissing Zayne.

Zayne.

And he kissed you first. The realization hits like a wave, crashing through the calm you’d clung to only moments ago. Your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, barely coherent under the thunder of your heartbeat. You hadn’t prepared for this—not tonight, not like this—but the warmth of his mouth on yours is impossible to mistake. Real. Solid. Undeniable. His lips are soft, slightly hesitant at first, like even now he’s holding back some part of himself. But there’s tension there too, coiled beneath the surface, aching to break free.

You kiss him back before your mind catches up, instinct guiding you when logic stutters and stalls. And the moment you do... God, everything changes.

He exhales against you, a sound low in his chest, and then his hands rise. One touches your cheek tentatively, and then the other follows, both cradling your face with the kind of care that makes your knees threaten to give out. His thumbs graze the line of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly to meet him better, deeper. The angle shifts. The kiss settles. And everything else ceases to matter.

There is no hilltop. No city lights. No past, no future. Just the aching heat between you, and the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for lifetimes to know how it feels.

Your heart is thrumming in your chest, in your throat, behind your eyes. You can’t hear anything above it, can’t think past the taste of him and the feel of his breath against your skin. He smells like night air and something clean and comforting that’s always lingered on his shirts when you’ve leaned too close without meaning to. But now you’re not pretending anymore. Now, you’re here, kissing him like you mean it.

And he’s letting you. But just when you think you might drown in it, when your fingers twitch against the edge of his jacket, wanting to pull him closer... he pulls back. Only just.

His breath is uneven, his mouth parted as he blinks down at you, hazel eyes wide with something unspoken. His gaze sweeps over your face, searching—maybe for regret, maybe for reassurance. He lingers on your lips, on the soft, stunned parting of them. And when you unconsciously bite your lower lip—barely, just a flick of teeth—he exhales like someone knocked the wind clean out of him.

His forehead leans into yours, resting there, skin to skin, breath to breath. Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to. Because in the space between your shared breath, in the way his thumbs still brush along your jaw, in the silence that stretches around you like a held chord—you both know. You crossed a line. And neither of you is sorry. Not even close.

You breathe in the nearness of him, your lashes fluttering against the warmth of his cheek, and something settles in your chest, fierce and fragile all at once.

You will never forget the way this moment feels. And thank God for that. Because it felt so good.

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