You throw out a few low-effort lines in the beginning—just enough to see if he’ll catch on. The first time, you lean over the nurses’ station where he’s reviewing a patient’s chart and let your fingers brush lightly against his hand.

“Careful, Dr. Chase. Don’t want to give a girl the wrong idea,”

You expect him to smirk, maybe roll his eyes. But he doesn’t. Instead, he glances at you, one brow barely lifting, and hums in response. Nonchalant. He doesn't even look up from the chart. You’re intrigued but undeterred.

The next time, you’re sitting across from him in the break room, stirring sugar into your coffee with deliberate slowness. When you catch him watching the motion of the spoon, you give a devilish grin.

“You know, if you stare any harder, I might start thinking you’ve got a thing for me,” you tease, your voice light and breezy.

And again, nothing. Just a polite chuckle.

For a while, it’s almost disappointing. He’s either immune to your antics or too professional to engage. But you don’t let up. It becomes part of the daily routine. You flirt as though you’re dancing on the edge of a blade you’re sure will never cut you. It’s safe. You know the game.

Until he starts playing back.

It begins so subtly you almost miss it. One day, while you’re walking side by side down the hallway, you toss out a casual, “Trying to keep up with me, Chase?”

And this time, he doesn’t give you the dismissive half-smile. He slows his stride by half a step, deliberately falling behind. Then, with a low murmur, he lets his gaze drop.

“Maybe I just like the view from here,”

It throws you. You stumble slightly, caught off guard by the sudden warmth blooming in your chest. You glance at him, but he’s already back to his usual composed self, as if he didn’t just catch you completely off guard.

You tell yourself it was a one-off. A fluke. But it isn’t.

The next time you’re in the conference room together, you’re bent over a case file on the table, your hip cocked slightly. You feel his gaze before he speaks.

“Is this your strategy?” His voice is a smooth drawl. You glance over your shoulder, confused.

“Hmm?”

“Trying to distract me on purpose,” His eyes skim over you briefly before he looks back at the file.

You laugh, but it comes out too high-pitched. You straighten immediately, heart thudding, and when you sit down, you make a point to tuck your legs beneath you, suddenly unsure what to do with your own body.

It gets worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

You’re in the lab a few days later, reaching for something on the highest shelf. The stretch makes your scrub top ride up slightly, and you hear the unmistakable sound of Chase’s voice from behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You glance over your shoulder, still reaching, your mouth already opening to toss back a flippant I’m fine—but you don’t get the chance. He steps closer, so close you can feel the warmth of him behind you. One hand comes to rest lightly at your waist as he easily retrieves the item.

He lingers just a beat too long. His breath warm against your neck.

When you turn, he’s still too close. Close enough that you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the faint scent of his cologne. You back up a step, but he doesn’t move.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You can’t speak. You clear your throat, grab the item you can’t remember why you even need, and turn away with a muttered, “Thanks,”

Your pulse is erratic. You can feel the heat rising up your neck, staining your cheeks. It’s infuriating. And thrilling. And completely unfair.

You start to avoid him, just a little. Just enough to regain your composure. You stick to your old habits, hoping to reclaim the upper hand. You tease others in the hospital more frequently, though none of it lands with the same sting of anticipation.

But Chase is patient. He doesn’t rush it. He waits until you let your guard down again.

You’re in the locker room, alone, exhausted after a long shift. You’ve peeled off your lab coat, and your scrubs are rumpled, clinging slightly from the day’s exertion. You’re leaning against the lockers when the door opens.

It’s him. Of course it is.

You glance at him in the mirror as he steps inside. Your tired eyes meet his in the reflection, and you muster the last of your bravado.

“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you came in here just to see little old me,” You’re aiming for playful, but your voice is strained with fatigue.

His eyes stay on yours as he walks over to his locker. Slowly, deliberately, he peels off his lab coat, folding it neatly. You watch his fingers with a little too much interest.

When he speaks, his voice is softer this time. More dangerous somehow.

“Would you be disappointed if I said no?”

The comment hits you like a punch to the sternum. You glance at him sharply, but he doesn’t look at you right away. He’s rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt with casual efficiency, exposing his forearms. You tear your gaze away, suddenly unable to handle the sight of the tendons shifting beneath his skin.

“Oh, please,” You force a smirk, crossing your arms over your chest to feign nonchalance. “You’re not that irresistible,”

He laughs softly, finally turning to face you fully. His eyes catch yours and hold them, and something in his gaze makes your stomach flip.

“Funny,” he says, his voice dropping ever so slightly. “Because you look a little flustered,”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words catch in your throat. You’re flustered, alright, and he knows it. He takes a step closer, his eyes heavy-lidded and calm, like he’s barely exerting any effort at all. You’re suddenly acutely aware of your own shallow breathing.

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to. His voice is enough.

“Didn’t expect me to fight back, did you?” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. His tone is soft, but you catch the faintest trace of smugness in it.

You shake your head faintly, unsure if you’re denying his accusation or admitting defeat. Your skin feels hot, your pulse thumping in your ears.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, leaning in slightly.

The bastard. He’s enjoying this.

You swallow thickly, trying to will yourself to break eye contact. To laugh it off. To say something. But you can’t. Because in that moment, the game you were so certain you’d been winning has flipped entirely.

The silence stretches too long. He’s too close. His voice is too low.

And when you finally speak, your voice barely carries above a whisper.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmur, but the words lack bite.

Chase’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk, and he leans in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your temple.

“Only for you,”

Your hands twitch at your sides, aching to grab his shirt, to pull him to you. But you’re still frozen. Suspended. Your carefully constructed walls, the teasing façade you’ve perfected over years, is crumbling spectacularly.

He leans back just slightly, giving you the briefest moment of reprieve. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the door.

Your knees feel unsteady. Your entire body is buzzing with the aftershock of his proximity. You exhale shakily, closing your eyes.

“This is so interesting,” you murmur, barely containing your excitement as you review the preliminary lab results. “I mean, it’s tragic for the patient, obviously, but from a medical standpoint, this is an incredibly rare case. Look—this deletion on chromosome 15? That could indicate Prader-Willi syndrome, but given the patient’s lack of speech development, the ataxic gait, and the characteristic happy demeanor, I think it’s more likely Angelman syndrome.”

You glance up, half-expecting Chase to be looking at the clock or zoning out like most people do when you go on a tangent.

Instead, he’s watching you.

He tilts his head slightly, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what makes you think that?”

Encouraged, you straighten and turn the file around, pointing to the genetic test results. “Well, it all depends on which parent the deletion came from. Both Angelman and Prader-Willi syndromes result from imprinting errors on chromosome 15. If the deletion is inherited from the father, it causes Prader-Willi syndrome. But if it’s inherited from the mother, it results in Angelman syndrome.”

Chase hums in acknowledgment, his gaze still locked on you, but you’re too deep in thought to notice the way he’s studying your face rather than the test results.

“The cool thing about imprinting disorders,” you continue, “is that they show how genes aren’t just about inheritance but also about which parent they come from. It’s not just about the presence or absence of a gene—it’s about whether that gene is supposed to be active in a particular parental copy. The same genetic region can cause two completely different disorders depending on whether the missing part came from the mother or father. Isn’t that wild?”

You pause, catching yourself.

You’ve been talking non-stop for at least two minutes.

Most people don’t last this long.

Your excitement fades slightly as you glance at Chase, expecting polite disinterest. Instead, he’s still looking at you, arms still crossed, that small smirk still lingering.

Your face heats up. “Uh—sorry. I tend to… ramble,”

He exhales a quiet chuckle. “I noticed,”

You chew the inside of your cheek, looking away. “You could’ve stopped me, you know,”

“Why would I do that?”

You glance back at him, surprised by his tone—warm, easy, almost fond.

His smirk softens into something more sincere, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and subtle, like cedar and soap.

You quickly look down at the machine running the genetic test. The results are almost ready, the sequence data processing line by line.

A small beep signals the final printout.

You grab it, scanning the page with an eager intensity that momentarily pushes Chase’s gaze from your mind. “A maternal deletion,” you murmur, eyes widening. “It is Angelman syndrome,”

Chase straightens slightly, stepping closer to glance at the results over your shoulder. “And that means…?”

“It means we need to tailor the treatment accordingly. Angelman patients benefit from seizure management, physical therapy, and specialised communication support since they often have minimal verbal speech—” You stop yourself, pressing your lips together.

There you go again.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Rambling again,”

Chase shakes his head, smiling. “No, keep going. You were saying?”

You blink, caught off guard.

He actually wants to hear more?

“…Right,” you continue hesitantly. “So, one of the main issues in Angelman syndrome is the loss of function of the UBE3A gene in neurons. Normally, the maternal copy of UBE3A is the only active one in the brain because the paternal copy is silenced. So when there’s a deletion on the maternal side, the patient essentially loses all functional UBE3A expression in their neurons, which leads to the neurological symptoms—seizures, developmental delays, lack of speech,”

You pause again, gauging his expression. He’s not just listening—he’s engaged.

You exhale softly, almost disbelieving.

“…Most people don’t let me talk about this stuff,” you admit.

Chase shrugs. “Most people are missing out,”

Your breath catches for just a moment.

Before you can respond, there’s a soft knock at the door, and you both turn as House steps in. “I’m gonna guess by the look on both your faces that the test was positive,”

You straighten, holding out the test results. “Yep. The patient has Angelman syndrome due to a maternal deletion on chromosome 15,”

House nods approvingly. “Good. Go and tell the parents that their child will have the mental capacity of an 8 year old forever,”

—

The patient’s parents sit across from you in the consultation room, their hands clasped together anxiously. The mother looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed, and the father’s knuckles are white from gripping his knee.

You take a deep breath, softening your voice. “We have a diagnosis for your son,”

Chase stands beside you, his presence steadying as you walk the family through the diagnosis. You explain Angelman syndrome carefully—what it means, how it happens, what treatments and support are available.

And when the mother, voice trembling, asks, “Is there any hope? Will he ever speak?”

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “Angelman syndrome affects speech development, but many children learn to communicate in other ways—gestures, pictures, assistive technology. With the right support, he will find ways to express himself,”

Chase steps in then, his voice calm and reassuring. “And because we caught it early, you’ll be able to get him the right therapies sooner. Seizure management, physical therapy, and specialised communication support will all be extremely useful,”

You blink, surprised.

You hadn’t expected him to remember that part.

The mother swallows thickly, nodding, and the father squeezes her hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you for explaining it so clearly,”

You smile gently. “It’s what I’m here for,”

—

Later, as you walk out of the consultation room, Chase nudges your arm.

“You did good in there,” he says.

You huff a small laugh. “We did good,”

He tilts his head, considering. “Yeah. But I meant you,”

You glance up at him, and for a second, the usual teasing glint in his eyes is replaced with something softer. Something that makes your heart skip a beat.

“…Thanks,” you say quietly.

He smirks, stepping back, slipping his hands into his pockets. “By the way,” he adds, “I think you almost finished your whole genetics lecture before we got interrupted. You’ll have to tell me the rest later,”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re making fun of me,”

Chase grins. “Maybe a little,”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small, warm smile tugging at your lips.

Because for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re too much.

You feel understood.

You’re finishing up with another customer, but when your eyes meet his across the dimly lit room, you notice him immediately. There’s something off about him. His gaze isn’t like the others—there’s no playful hunger behind it, no pretentious flirtation. It’s just... distant. Weary, even. But it doesn’t take long for him to make his way over to you.

“Hey,” he greets with a half-smile, leaning in slightly. His voice is smooth but with a weariness that doesn't match the usual energy you get from patrons. “You, uh... free for a dance?”

You nod, putting on your best customer-service face, and motion for him to follow you toward the private room. You get the usual chat in—”What’re you in the mood for tonight?” “Anything specific?”—but the words feel almost like an afterthought. There’s something in the way he answers, distracted, like his mind’s elsewhere.

As you settle into the rhythm of the dance, moving to the beat of the music, you notice it more—his eyes are unfocused, his posture slouched just enough to suggest he's not really here.

His fingers occasionally tap along the armrest, but it's not like he’s waiting to touch or reach for something—it’s as though he’s keeping his hands busy to avoid letting them linger on the emptiness.

The usual customers—guys who come in for the thrill or the brief distraction—have a certain energy to them, but Chase is different. He doesn’t seem to need the attention, or maybe he does, but it’s not coming through the same way.

He looks at you every now and then, but there's something detached about it. His gaze flickers to the side a few times, his lips pressing into a tight line as if he's wrestling with something beneath the surface.

You're used to the act—the forced smiles, the exchanges that stay light and playful, the way men use these moments to either get off or escape. But this... this feels like something else.

You move closer, your body swaying just a little more slowly as you watch his face. There's something about it—the furrow between his brows, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes. His mind isn’t here. He’s somewhere else, and it’s almost like you can feel the weight of it, the invisible burden he's carrying.

It’s curious. You’ve learned to read people in this job, and usually, you’d ignore the signs. You’d keep the show going, keep the mood light, keep it transactional. But something about this guy nags at you. His distracted energy tugs at the corners of your attention, pulling you into the rhythm of his unspoken thoughts.

For a moment, you find yourself wondering what he's really here for.

You stop your movements for a moment, leaning in just slightly, your voice soft. “You okay? You look kinda... stressed.”

It’s a casual observation, one that’s almost out of habit, but the second the words leave your mouth, you see his entire body stiffen.

His eyes shift to meet yours, and for the first time since he sat down, they focus on you—really focus. The walls he’s put up are suddenly much thinner, and the vulnerability that flashes across his face catches you off guard.

He takes a breath like he’s about to brush it off, but instead, the dam breaks. “I’m... not fine,” he mutters, almost to himself, as if he hadn’t planned to say anything but couldn’t stop it once the words started coming.

You tilt your head, keeping a soft expression, not wanting to interrupt him. He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with this sudden shift in energy. “It’s just… it’s been a rough couple of months,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “Work’s been hell, but that’s not even the worst of it,”

You don’t ask him to elaborate. You don’t need to. The weight in his voice is enough.

“There's this girl,” he adds after a pause. “A friend. I guess I thought... I thought maybe she’d feel the same. But she doesn’t. And it’s just—God, it feels like everything’s been building up, you know? Like I’ve been pouring everything I’ve got into this thing that’s never going to work, and I’m just... stuck. Every day I’m pretending everything’s fine, but it’s not. And I’m... I don’t know. I’m tired,”

His words spill out in a rush, raw and unfiltered, as though they’ve been trapped beneath the surface for too long. His shoulders slump even further, and there’s an emptiness in his gaze now, an openness that’s almost unfamiliar. You can’t help but feel the sincerity of it, the weight of everything he’s just let go of in a single breath.

You’ve heard plenty of men talk about their problems, but nothing like this. Nothing so honest, so stripped of the bravado most customers hide behind.

You keep your movements slow and gentle, not wanting to break the moment. “Sounds like you’ve been carrying a lot,” you say quietly, offering him a small smile. “That’s a lot for anyone to hold on their own,”

Chase’s eyes flicker up to meet yours again, and for a brief moment, there’s a sense of gratitude that passes between you. He doesn’t say anything else at first, just breathes out a shaky laugh, as if he’s surprised by how much he just let go.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “I guess I didn’t realize how much it was wearing me down until now,”

You nod, acknowledging the weight of it without pushing him to elaborate further. Instead, you let the silence settle between you for a moment, offering the kind of presence that doesn’t demand more than what he’s already given. You’re not here to fix his problems or offer advice—just to listen. That’s enough, for now.

Chase’s shoulders loosen slightly, the tension in his body beginning to ebb as the moment stretches on. There’s a comfort in just being heard, you can tell. He looks at you differently now, as if he’s seeing you for the first time—not just the stripper performing a routine, but someone who sees him, someone who’s offered him a space to breathe.

The music continues to pulse around you, but now it feels like a distant hum. He’s not the same man who walked into this club an hour ago. There’s a softness in his gaze now, a layer of honesty that wasn’t there before.

You keep the dance going, but it’s quieter, more subdued. And even though the physical distance between you remains, something between you has shifted—something deeper than the usual exchange of money and attention.

—

The first time Chase comes back, you’re not surprised. Not really. Men return all the time—it’s part of the job. Some develop favourites, some mistake the comfort for something deeper, and some just like routine.

But Chase is different.

He doesn’t come back like a man chasing a fantasy. He comes back like a man seeking relief. Like someone who’s figured out that, for some reason, this place—you—is the one thing that makes the weight on his shoulders feel just a little lighter.

The second time, he doesn’t even pretend it’s about the dance.

He asks for you by name, waits for you even when another girl offers him her attention. You catch the way some of the other dancers exchange looks, the way they notice him brushing off offers with polite smiles and quiet shakes of his head.

You know what they’re thinking—he’s getting attached. He’s making this into something it’s not.

And maybe, if this were anyone else, you’d think the same.

But when you walk over to where he’s waiting and meet his eyes, there’s no desperation there. No illusion that this is something more than it is. Just that same quiet exhaustion, the same guarded relief that settles into his shoulders the second you lead him to a private booth.

When you settle onto his lap and the music starts, there’s something hesitant in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out if the first time was a fluke—if you’re actually willing to listen again.

And, of course, you do.

At first, it’s small talk, a warm-up into whatever’s really on his mind. Work. The endless hours at the hospital. The way the bureaucracy of it all frustrates him more than he wants to admit. Then it turns personal, shifting back to the reason he ended up here in the first place.

Cameron.

He doesn’t say her name at first, but you recognize the way his voice tightens when he talks about her. About how it still stings, how he’s still trying to convince himself he’s fine with being just friends when he’s not.

You don’t give him any bullshit responses about how she’s not worth it or how he’ll move on eventually. You just nod, let him talk, let him get it out of his system the way he clearly hasn’t been able to anywhere else.

By the third visit, the dance is almost an afterthought.

He still pays, still goes through the motions, but you both know what this is now. He’s here to talk, to unwind in a way he doesn’t let himself anywhere else. You let him, because why wouldn’t you? His money’s still green, and his presence—oddly enough—has started to feel less like work and more like something... different.

By the fourth or fifth time, it’s a routine.

He walks in, scans the room, finds you. You meet his gaze, give him that same knowing smile, and he exhales just a little, like something in his chest finally uncoils. You take him to the back, where the music is quieter and the lights a little softer, and settle in like this is something normal.

And maybe, in some way, it is.

He doesn’t expect you to fix his problems. He doesn’t ask for advice. He just talks, and you let him, because here, in this space, he doesn’t have to pretend to be fine.

And in return, he listens to you, too.

It starts slow—little things here and there. A casual mention of your long shifts, a joke about a particularly bad customer, a sarcastic comment about how guys like him are your favourite. He laughs at that, a real one, and something about it makes you want to keep the conversation going, keep pulling pieces of him into the open.

He asks questions, too. Small ones, at first. Where you’re from. How long you’ve been dancing. If you actually like it or if it’s just a job. You give him honest answers, as honest as you’re willing to be. He doesn’t push when you brush off certain topics, and you don’t push when he does the same.

One night, after a particularly rough shift at the hospital, he sits down with a sigh so heavy it seems to sink into the leather of the chair. “I don’t know why I keep coming here,” he mutters, almost to himself. “It’s not even about the dances anymore,”

You quirk a brow, leaning in slightly, your body still moving with the music. “You saying I’m not entertaining?”

His lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

You do.

And you don’t really have an answer for him.

Maybe he keeps coming back because you’re the only person he doesn’t have to lie to. Maybe it’s because, in the quiet moments between songs, in the low light of the club, this feels more real than whatever life is waiting for him outside.

Maybe it’s because, despite everything, you don’t mind him being here.

Chase is still a customer. You’re still a stripper. The boundaries are clear.

But somehow, this has started to feel like something else.

—

It’s one of those quieter nights—barely anyone in the club, the music softer, the lights dimmer.

There’s a calm to the place that makes everything feel less transactional, more... real. You’re in the middle of a dance when you notice that Chase isn’t his usual self tonight. He’s still in his usual seat, but there’s a noticeable shift in his energy—less distant than usual, more grounded, like he’s made a decision, but hasn’t quite figured out how to act on it.

The dance is almost secondary now, more like background noise as you talk, just like you have in the past. His voice is low, thoughtful, as he continues his story about the latest frustrations at the hospital. He’s letting the words spill out easily, more comfortable in his vulnerability than before.

But even with the conversation flowing, there’s something different about this moment. You can feel it. He’s not talking to you just to talk anymore. There’s something on his mind.

When you finish the dance, you sit back and glance at him. For the first time tonight, his gaze isn't once distracted or distant.

He’s looking at you like he's actually seeing you—not the dancer, not the person who’s just there to provide a service, but you.

There’s a moment of silence, one that stretches between you, and then, almost hesitantly, he speaks up. “Hey... are you free for coffee sometime?”

It’s such a simple question. So casual. So normal. But the impact of it hits you all at once.

You blink, not quite sure you heard him right. For a moment, everything around you fades. The noise of the club, the flashing lights, the occasional chatter of patrons—it all quiets in the space between those words.

It’s not the question itself—it’s the shift in tone, the change in what he’s asking for. He’s not requesting a dance. He’s not hiding behind the usual routine. He’s offering something else, something that steps beyond the boundaries of what the two of you have been up until now.

This isn’t just a customer asking for something to make the night easier, more comfortable. It’s a person, Chase, asking for a chance to get to know you outside of these walls. To see you in a different light.

You sit there for a second, processing the weight of what he’s just said. Coffee. Something so mundane, something so human. It’s not a euphemism, not a request for something more—at least not directly. It’s an invitation. An invitation for something deeper, something outside the scripted interactions of this place.

It feels like the ground beneath you is shifting, and for a moment, you wonder if you’re both standing on the edge of something new. Something real.

You take a breath, the words hanging in the air before you respond. “Yeah,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady. “I think I’d like that,”

His face softens, and you can see a flicker of relief in his eyes, as though he’d been holding his breath, unsure of how you’d respond.

There’s a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but it’s different from the usual smiles he gives you when you share a laugh or an inside joke. This one’s more genuine, more open, as though you’ve both crossed into something new.

The energy between you shifts. It’s no longer just a routine—no longer just a man paying for attention and a woman providing it. This feels like two people connecting, genuinely, without the walls that had once been so carefully placed between you.

It’s a subtle change, but it’s there. In the way you both look at each other a little longer now, in the way his questions seem to dig deeper, in the way you start sharing small pieces of your life, too.

“Maybe we could go tomorrow?” He’s speaking softly, almost like he’s still not sure if he’s overstepped. “Or whenever you’re free. No pressure, of course,”

The nervousness in his voice is endearing, but you’re not sure if it’s about the coffee itself, or the shift in the dynamic between you two—the shift from “customer and stripper” to “two people trying to navigate what’s starting to feel like an actual friendship.”

“I’m free tomorrow,” you say with a small smile, and something in your chest shifts, too, lighter than it’s been in a while. It’s a simple decision, but it feels momentous.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like you’re in a strip club anymore. It feels like you’re just two people, sharing a moment, on the cusp of something different. Something new. Something that might not end up like the stories you’re used to—but maybe, just maybe, it’s worth seeing where it goes.

Chase nods, his expression softening, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. He seems more relaxed now—more like the weight has been taken off him, even if just for a second. Like he’s finally taking a step towards something that’s been long overdue.

“Coffee tomorrow, then,” he repeats, like a promise. And for the first time in a while, you feel something unexpected stir in you—something hopeful, something real.

Chase is the kind of boyfriend who seems reserved on the surface but loves deeply and consistently, he’s not overly dramatic or demanding, he just wants someone who understands his quiet devotion and gives him the same in return

his love languages are definitely acts of service and physical touch

like he’s not overly vocal about his emotions, but he shows love through actions—making coffee in the morning, pulling you close while watching TV, or placing a reassuring hand on your back in public

he won’t always say “i love you,” but he’ll remember the little details—your favourite wine, how you take your tea, or the song that was playing on your first date etc etc

because of Chase’s inherent trust issues, he’d probably be hesitant to jump straight into full on dating, but after a few months and the chance to actually discuss his issues, he’d be devoted to you for as long as you’ll let him

when dealing with the really emotional topics, he’d probably deflect with sarcasm or humour to lighten the mood instead of addressing things directly

Chase is the kind of guy who wants to be seen as put-together, so he’d probably downplay his own struggles, but he’d deeply appreciate a partner who sees through the facade and supports him anyway

he’d lowkey just shut down if he’s overwhelmed and not actually talk about it with you until he’s given himself time to actually process what he’s feeling

if he feels like he’s messed up (even in minor ways), he’ll beat himself up over it and might overcompensate to make up for it

if he oversteps, or you express frustration with how he withdraws, he’d rather apologise through the small things, like taking every opportunity to hold your hand or make you your favourite food etc instead of a full-blown grand apology

bro’s just not a words man, what can i say?

being a doctor means unpredictable hours, but he always makes an effort to carve out time for you, even if it’s just a sleepy cuddle after a long shift

Chase is a romantic at heart, everyone knows it. he’s not one for grand gestures, but he’ll surprise you with a spontaneous weekend getaway or a heartfelt note tucked in your bag with your lunch

he’s touchy when he’s comfortable—hand on the lower back, forehead kisses, pulling you close when you’re in bed

he’s not massive on pda, but he’ll link your fingers together or pull you into his side if you’re walking too close to a road

100% a hands in the hair when he kisses kinda guy

he wouldn’t be overtly jealous, but he’ll get tense if he sees someone making you uncomfortable. he has a quiet but firm way of making it clear you’re his

“One day, it will be,” he muses, smirking at you. “And when that happens, I’ll personally accept your apology… preferably over dinner,”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the hint of a smirk. “You assuming I’d take you to dinner if you were right is cute. Delusional, but cute,”

“Then I’ll settle for drinks. You can even pretend it’s a pity outing,”

House, who has been listening to your exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally interjects. “I’d tell you two to get a room, but I think you’d rather keep up this foreplay in front of an audience,”

Cameron coughs, Foreman scoffs, and Chase—completely unfazed—shrugs. “If we’re keeping score, I think I’m winning,”

You arch a brow at him, shifting in your seat. “Oh? And what exactly are you winning?”

“The game,” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping enough to sound almost conspiratorial. “You know… the one where you pretend you’re not enjoying this,”

Your pulse jumps for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “You wish,”

House claps his hands together, effectively cutting through the moment. “Much as I’d love to watch this unresolved sexual tension play out in real time, we have an actual patient. So unless this is leading to some kind of medically relevant insight, I’d suggest you both channel that energy into something useful,” He pauses, eyes flicking between you and Chase before smirking. “Or at least wait until after work to rip each other’s clothes off,”

Cameron looks deeply uncomfortable, Foreman mutters something about needing new colleagues, and Chase? Well, Chase just winks at you, smug as ever.

Game on.

—

The patient’s condition is getting worse, and House is nowhere to be found—probably off harassing Cuddy or playing mind games with Wilson. That leaves the rest of you huddled around the conference table, sorting through test results.

You tap a pen against your lips, eyes narrowed at the list in front of you. “Her liver enzymes are elevated, but no sign of hepatitis. Negative for Wilson’s disease, negative for autoimmune markers…”

“Could be a parasitic infection,” Cameron suggests, glancing up from her notes.

Chase leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward you. “Sounds messy. I hope you don’t mind getting your hands dirty,”

You shoot him a look. “That depends. Are you offering to be my assistant? Or just my parasite?”

Foreman groans, rubbing his temples. “Oh my God. Can you two just—?”

Cameron nudges his arm before he can finish. “Shh. I have twenty bucks on them cracking by the end of the week,”

You and Chase turn to her at the same time. “Excuse me?”

Cameron shrugs, feigning innocence. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just… kind of obvious,”

Foreman crosses his arms, smirking slightly. “I said a month, but now I’m reconsidering. You two can’t go five minutes without turning everything into an innuendo,”

“You’re imagining things,” you say smoothly, ignoring the way Chase’s knee just barely brushes against yours under the table.

“Yeah,” Chase adds, grinning. “I’d never use a serious medical discussion to flirt,”

You scoff. “Right. Because that would be wildly inappropriate,”

Cameron exchanges a knowing glance with Foreman. “Exactly,”

—

The hospital is quieter at night. The usual hum of activity dulls to an ambient murmur of overnight nurses and the occasional beeping monitor.

You’re in the diagnostics office, reviewing test results while Chase leans against House’s desk, absentmindedly tossing a stress ball in the air.

It’s just the two of you.

“This is the part where I should tell you to go home,” you say, not looking up from the file. “But I know you won’t listen,”

Chase catches the ball in one hand and smirks. “And miss out on the chance to keep you company? I’d never,”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “What a gentleman,”

He pushes off the desk and moves closer, just enough for you to feel the shift in proximity. “I can be, when it suits me,”

The air is different tonight. He’s always been flirtatious, always toeing the line, but this time, there’s something heavier in the silence that lingers between words.

You glance up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak. It would be easy to close the gap. To push just a little further.

But you don’t.

Instead, you exhale, shaking your head as you look back down at the file. “You should really get some sleep, Chase.”

He lingers for just a second longer before letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back. “You too,”

As he leaves the office, you find yourself staring at the door for longer than you should.

—

It’s been one of those shifts where the exhaustion settles deep into your bones, where you feel like you’ve been going nonstop for days, even though it’s only been a few hours.

Chase, ever the one to escape stress with some humor, suggests grabbing drinks. The others quickly agree, but you and Chase end up walking out of the hospital together, the others trailing behind.

You’ve worked together long enough to know the difference between casual group outings and just the two of you.

When you get to the bar, the atmosphere is warm, filled with the sound of low conversations and the clink of glasses. You order your drinks, the chatter flowing easily at first. It’s comfortable—like it always is when you’re with Chase—but tonight, there’s something different. The usual teasing that’s exchanged over the complexities of medicine starts to feel like something else.

“Well, you know, if you were paying attention, I did say we should run the ANA panel last time,” you tease, stirring your drink. You catch him watching you, his expression almost smug, but you don’t break eye contact.

“Oh, I heard you,” he replies, his voice low, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I just didn’t think you were right,”

You tilt your head with a scoff, narrowing your eyes. “But now you do?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he replies, taking a step closer. “But I think you like the challenge of proving me wrong,”

You lean back in your chair, trying to act unaffected, but your heart races. The space between you has closed in ways you hadn’t expected. “Not everything’s a challenge, Chase,”

He grins, his voice dropping a little further. “Sure about that? Because if you think I can’t keep up with you, I’m happy to prove you wrong,”

It’s playful. It’s always playful, right?

But tonight, there’s an edge to it. A tension that neither of you have addressed, but both of you are clearly aware of.

The way his eyes follow your movements. The way his smile lingers just a second too long on your lips. You feel the weight of his words like a challenge you don’t want to back down from.

It’s subtle, but it’s there—an almost imperceptible shift. You feel it when his hand brushes against yours on the bar. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do you. For a heartbeat, everything around you fades, leaving only the space between the two of you.

It would be easy. So easy.

You could lean in, and he could kiss you, and you wouldn’t need to say a word. You could blame it on the alcohol, or the exhaustion, or just the chemistry that’s been crackling between you for weeks now.

But then, just as quickly as it started, you both pull back.

You laugh—maybe a little too loud, trying to cover up the moment that nearly shattered the wall you’ve both built around yourselves. “You’re an idiot,” you say, a little breathless, fingers tapping nervously on the edge of your glass.

Chase smirks, but there’s something softer in his expression now. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you like idiots.”

He leans back, turning his attention to his drink, and the playful banter resumes—but it’s different. There’s an edge to it now, an undercurrent of something else simmering beneath the surface.

Neither of you acknowledges it directly. Instead, you both talk about the case again, acting like nothing has changed. But you both know. Neither of you is fooled.

For the first time, the game isn’t just a game anymore. And it’s only a matter of time before one of you breaks.

—

The next day is a blur of frantic phone calls, lab reports, and running from one department to the next. The case has taken a turn for the worse, and the pressure is palpable.

Everyone is on edge, moving faster than usual, but the answers still aren’t coming. You and Chase work side by side, your minds racing with the mounting frustration.

The stress is starting to take its toll.

You’re reviewing the latest test results when Chase steps closer, his eyes scanning the board. “We’re missing something. There’s got to be a piece we’re overlooking,”

You feel his breath just a little too close, your heartbeat quickening. “Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “If I knew what that piece was, I’d have figured it out by now,”

“Don’t snap at me,” he says, voice quiet but teasing. “I’m on your side here,”

You glance at him, frustration flashing in your eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”

The tension between you is thick, heavier than it’s been before, each word a spark in the charged air. The room feels too small, too close, the adrenaline turning everything you say and do into something else—something that doesn’t belong in a hospital.

Chase takes a step back, but the distance doesn’t help. He’s still close enough to make your skin feel tight, still close enough for you to hear the quiet beat of his pulse beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” You sigh, exasperatedly taking your hands through your hair. “I’m just stressed,”

There’s a pause, a breath held in the space between you. Then, without a word, he steps forward, his hand finding your arm.

“You need a break,” he says, his voice low and urgent.

You swallow hard, feeling your breath catch in your throat. “I don’t need a break. I need answers,”

But the words feel hollow even as you say them. You don’t need answers. Not right now.

Before you can think, before you can even process what’s happening, Chase pulls you gently but firmly down the hallway, into a small, empty supply closet.

It’s a tight fit—your back pressed against the cold wall, his body just a breath away. The air in the small room is thick with the same kind of tension that’s been building between you for weeks, but now, it’s palpable. You can feel it in your skin, in the way your breath comes faster than it should.

You give a small laugh. “This isn’t the break room,”

And then, just like that, the moment snaps.

Chase closes the space between you, his lips crashing into yours. It’s not the slow, teasing kiss you expected—it’s urgent, hungry, desperate. All the months of flirtation, the innuendos, the playful jabs, finally culminating in this.

His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can’t help but respond, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, and the world outside the closet fades away. There’s only the rush of adrenaline in your veins, the heat of his touch, the way your bodies move in sync, as though they’ve always known this was coming.

His hands slide down your back, pressing you even closer, and for a moment, you forget about the case, forget about everything but this. His lips trail down to your neck, and you let out a soft gasp, heart pounding in your chest.

“Are we really doing this right now?” you breathe, barely able to form the words as your breath hitches in your throat.

Chase pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression intense, searching. “Do you want to?” he asks, voice low, a mixture of desire and uncertainty.

Your mind races, the heat of the moment clouding your thoughts. But you don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping your lips before you pull him back to you.

The kiss picks up again, but this time, it’s more than just passion. There’s an urgency to it—something unspoken that has been building for far too long.

His hands roam, slipping beneath your shirt, and you don’t stop him. Every touch feels electric, igniting something deep inside you. The adrenaline from the case, the rush of being so close, the need to feel something more than just the constant stress of the hospital… it all comes together in that moment.

You don’t think about the consequences. You don’t think about anything except the way he makes you feel.

But even in the haze of desire, the question lingers. What happens after? What happens when the game is over?

Right now, though, you don’t care. All that matters is the way his lips feel against your skin, the way his hands fit perfectly against you. It’s everything and nothing at once.

And for the first time, you don’t pull away.

Chase is driven insane by the smallest things. The way your fingers curled into his belt-loops to tug him closer. The feel of your nails, scraping over his scalp as your hand slides through his hair. The way you breathe his name as he dips his head, mouthing at the hollow of your throat.

Too much. He thinks, as one hand comes up to curl around your wrist, pinning your hand against the door of the closet. Too much but still not enough.

He’s lost the ability for rational thought. It’s been pushed aside for need, for desire. Your name’s a constant on his lips, a hushed whisper as he presses kisses onto your neck. Teeth skimming over your skin, tongue soothing the light sting.

He finally draws back to meet your gaze. His expression is dark, pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed so pretty. “I want you.” He says it as an absolute truth. As if you don’t already know that by the way his knee is slotted between your thighs.

He watches you. The way your lips part on a breath, an almost involuntary sound falling from them as he draws his knee up. “God, look at you,” He murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “So pretty already and I’ve barely even touched you,”

His hand slides up the inside of your thigh, his touch almost reverent. The tip of his nose grazes your ear as his fingers dip under the edge of your pants. “Want you. So, so goddamn badly.”

And in contrast to the sweet way he speaks to you, the way he’s touching you is downright dirty. It sets the pit of your stomach on fire as his hand dips lower, cupping you through your panties and giving a slow, testing drag of his palm.

It’s a low, breathy moan that escapes you, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment and your head thumping lightly against the door. “God-“ he groans, “I’m not going to last.” He hooks a finger around the waistband of your pants and tugs them down just enough for him to get a better purchase on you.

He doesn’t even tease. His hand immediately slips under the soft, black cotton of your underwear, his fingers dipping into you in a fluid motion. “God you’re so hot—“ He asks, his breath hot against your ear. “All this for me?”

Your answer comes in the form of a stifled gasp, your hips moving of their own accord to meet his hand. “Chase.” It’s the only word you manage, and it’s half formed, coming out on a whimper. Like you’re pleading.

It’s that sound and your pleading tone that does him in. His breath shudders out of him in a low sound of want. “You’re killing me.” He mutters, his words punctuated by the sound of his belt unbuckling.

He’s impatient, and it’s evident in the way his hand pushes at the fabric of your underwear. There’s nothing romantic about it, no sweet murmurs of sweet nothings or gentle coaxing. It’s needy and desperate and it’s you and that’s all that matters.

He keeps one hand planted on the wood of the door, keeping you pinned in place. The other dips, and the feel of his fingers is immediately replaced by the head of his cock, already leaking as it stretches out your entrance.

A low curse is muttered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

He moves with purpose, his hips rolling forwards and pushing his length into you in a single steady motion. Chase gives a quiet grunt, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

The whole thing feels like it’s happening so fast. Too fast. Neither of you are thinking clearly. But it’s you and it’s him and his face is still buried in the crook of your neck and his cock stretches you out so good that it leaves you whining.

His hand drops from the door, shifting to grip one of your thighs and hitch it over his hip. It gives him a different angle, one that he takes full advantage of.

He picks up the pace, and the hand that he’s gripping your thigh with gives it a firm squeeze. “I’ve thought about this.” He whispers, the words almost lost against your skin, “Can’t get you out of my head.”

He’s babbling now, his words low and punctuated by heavy breaths. And you’re so pretty like this, your eyes squeezed shut and your back arched against the door as he takes and takes and takes.

He can’t remember the last time he came so quickly. All it takes is a sound from you, a breathy sigh of his name and he’s done. He lets himself lose control, giving a loud curse as his hips stutter in their motion, desperately trying to pull out despite the instinct to bury his spend inside you.

Instead, it dribbles down the inside of your thighs, coating your skin and your underwear alike.

The moments after are filled with a tense, lingering quiet. Neither of you speaks immediately, neither of you moves to pull away. Your heart is still racing, your mind spinning with everything that just happened.

Chase stands there for a moment, his forehead resting gently against yours, both of you catching your breath. But neither of you says anything.

It’s like a flicker, an electric pulse, that connects you both, and then just as quickly as it began, it feels like a weight pressing down. The weight of what just happened, of the unspoken words, of the fact that everything has changed.

“Chase…” You break the silence, your voice a whisper, uncertain. You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, but the question sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. What now?

He steps back slowly, his hands resting at his sides. He doesn’t look at you directly, his jaw tight. “We shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have…”

But the words trail off, unsaid. He doesn’t finish the sentence, and neither do you.

A moment passes, and the world starts to feel like it’s slowly realigning around you both. The air no longer feels suffocating, but it’s thick with the weight of everything you didn’t say. Neither of you makes a move to break the silence. Finally, Chase gives a sharp exhale. “We should get back to work.”

You nod, a little too quickly, still lost in the aftershock. Your fingers graze your lips, still tingling from the kiss and everything after, but you don’t let yourself linger on it. There’s nothing to say.

Not yet.

—

The next day, you and Chase are back in the diagnostic office like nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. The air between you is a little too thick, a little too aware of the space you now share. Every word feels heavier, more loaded. And whenever your eyes meet, it’s like there’s something you both are trying not to acknowledge.

But neither of you says a word.

It’s House, of course, who does notice. He’s always observant, always sharp when it comes to his team’s dynamics. He watches the two of you from across the room with a knowing smirk, almost as if he’s been waiting for this.

“Is it just me,” House drawls, breaking the silence as he slides into the office, “or does it feel like someone’s been… busy?”

You freeze, and you can feel Chase tense next to you. You don’t want to look at him, not with House’s smirk aimed squarely at both of you. You can’t look at him.

“You two should get a room,” House continues, unbothered by the tension hanging in the air. “It’s honestly like a live soap opera around here,”

Cameron, overhearing from the other room, raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on now?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, barely able to keep your cool. “Nothing happened,”

But House just fakes a sigh, fishing out his wallet and holding out a twenty dollar bill in Cameron’s direction. “I guess I owe you twenty bucks,”

You can hear the amusement in his voice as he takes a seat at his desk, eyes gleaming with too much satisfaction. He’s not going to let this go. Not for a second.

“You guys slept together?” Cameron’s voice is a mix between amusement and mortification as she takes the cash, and you groan.

Chase clears his throat and straightens up, trying to salvage some sense of normalcy. “It’s nothing to write home about,”

“Oh but it is,” House says with an exaggerated smirk, leaning back in his chair. “Talk about a HR violation,”

—

The next few days pass in a blur of awkward silences, quick glances, and sidelong looks between you and Chase. Neither of you brings up the supply closet, not once. Instead, you focus on the case, on everything but what happened behind closed doors.

The chemistry between you both is still there, still undeniable, but now it’s wrapped in layers of unspoken words. It’s the elephant in the room you both avoid acknowledging.

And yet, as you work together—closer than ever before, eyes meeting more often than they should, the energy still humming between you—you both know something has shifted. You’re not sure what it is yet.

At one point, when House pushes you to continue working late on a particularly difficult diagnosis, you end up alone with Chase again. The tension between you both feels just as charged as it did that night in the supply closet, but now, it’s thicker. More complex.

Chase stands next to you, looking down at the patient’s chart, but you can feel his gaze flicking toward you, gauging your reaction. His voice is quieter this time, as though testing the waters. “So…”

“So,” you reply, keeping your voice steady, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it.

He sighs, clearly sensing the unease between you. “What do you think? Is this it then?”

You hesitate, the words sitting heavily in your chest. This is the question. What happens now? What happens when the game is over?

You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the flutter of uncertainty in your stomach. “I don’t think it’s just a game anymore, Chase,”

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you both. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—a mix of hope, uncertainty, and that ever-present challenge.

And in that moment, you realise: neither of you has to have the answer right now.

“You’re right,” he says softly, his lips curling into a smile. “Maybe it’s not,”

And so, the game continues—only now, it’s not a game at all. It’s something else entirely, something neither of you is ready to define yet.

You wish you hadn’t found out. That House hadn’t been an ignorant prick and outed the two in the middle of the diagnostics room.

Maybe you could have gone a little longer in blissful ignorance, believing the stolen glances between you and Chase meant something.

Maybe you could have continued thinking that the lingering touches, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the easy banter—it all meant something.

But it doesn’t. Because if it had, Chase wouldn’t have fallen into bed with someone else.

You swallow down the lump in your throat and focus on House as he scrawls nonsense across the whiteboard. No one else in the room seems remotely aware of your inner turmoil. Foreman is scribbling notes, Cameron looks perfectly composed, and Chase—

Chase won’t meet your eyes.

That hurts most of all.

You don’t know how you missed it. Looking back, the signs were there. The subtle shift in Chase’s demeanor, the way Cameron would smirk at him from across the room, the way they seemed… closer. More comfortable. And now, knowing what you know, you can’t unsee it.

“You still with us?” House’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You blink and realise that everyone is staring at you.

“I’m fine,” you reply, keeping your tone even.

House gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you but, surprisingly, doesn’t push. “Great. Go do doctor things.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You especially.” He points at Chase. “I need a coffee, British people drink coffee don’t they?”

“Australian,” Chase rolls his eyes but stands, shooting you a hesitant glance before leaving the room.

You should let it go. You should get back to work, shove your feelings down where they belong, and pretend none of this affects you.

But you don’t. Instead, you follow him.

—

You catch up to Chase in the break room, where he’s waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing. He notices you instantly, posture stiffening as he glances over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says cautiously.

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter. “Hey.”

For a moment, there’s only silence between you. The sound of coffee dripping into the pot is the only thing filling the space, and the tension is suffocating.

Finally, Chase sighs. “I should’ve told you,”

The confirmation makes your stomach twist. It’s not even a denial, not even an attempt to play dumb. Just quiet resignation.

“Does it matter?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d like.

He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess not,”

You want to be rational about this. You want to be mature. But all you can think about is how stupid you feel. How blind you were to something happening right under your nose.

“I just…” You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. “I thought there was something between us.”

Chase’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to the floor.

You swallow hard. “Was I wrong?”

“No,” he admits. “You weren’t,”

His voice is quiet, but the weight of his words slams into you with full force. You weren’t wrong.

“Then why?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Chase exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because it wouldn’t have mattered,”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something almost painful in his expression.

“You’re… you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to explain everything. “You’re brilliant. And focused. And incredible. And I—” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I didn’t think I had a chance,”

Your heart clenches. “So instead of even trying, you just… what? Slept with the first woman you spoke to?”

He flinches. “It wasn’t like that,”

“Then what was it like?”

He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Easy? Safe?”

That stings more than it should. “So I wouldn’t have been easy or safe?”

His gaze sharpens. “No. You would’ve been real,”

The words knock the breath from your lungs.

Chase shakes his head, jaw tight. “Look, I know I screwed up. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Hell, I didn’t even think I had the ability to hurt you,” He huffs a bitter laugh. “Guess I was wrong,”

You don’t know what to say to that. Because he did hurt you. And the worst part is, you don’t know if he even realised he had the power to.

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

Finally, you speak. “Do you love her?”

Chase doesn’t answer right away. And that tells you everything you need to know.

“No,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod slowly, processing his answer.

Chase steps closer, hesitating before speaking again. “Do you love me?”

Your breath catches.

It would be so easy to lie, to tell him no, to walk away and pretend none of this mattered. But you’ve never been good at lying to yourself.

“I could have.”

Chase’s expression twists with something unreadable. Regret, maybe.

You don’t say anything else. You just turn and walk away, leaving him standing there with the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Because maybe, in another life, in another version of this story, things could have been different.

It’s always like this—urgent, desperate, pleasure tangled in the casualness of your arrangement. You both agreed to this. No strings, no expectations, just the kind of release that only two people who understand each other’s needs can give.

And yet… something feels different.

You only catch it in brief moments—his fingers threading through yours and holding on longer than usual, the way his lips linger against your skin as if memorizing the taste, the way his gaze locks onto yours and doesn’t waver even when he’s losing himself completely.

You chalk it up to the heat of the moment, a trick of the dim light and the rush of sensation, and let yourself fall over the edge with him.

What you don’t know is that, in that moment, Chase is realizing something that should terrify him.

He wants more than just this.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course, he doesn’t.

Chase isn’t the type to throw himself into feelings without overanalysing them, and he’s certainly not going to risk ruining what you have with a clumsy confession.

So, he carries on as if nothing’s changed.

Except… everything has.

It starts with little things.

The morning after, instead of rushing to clean up and send you on your way like usual, he lingers in bed. He watches as you stretch lazily, the sheets tangled around your legs, your body warm and pliant beside him. You make some joke about how he’s usually up and moving before you’ve even opened your eyes, and he just shrugs.

“Didn’t feel like rushing today.”

Then there’s the coffee.

You’re used to slipping out in the morning and grabbing something from the café near your place, but one morning, you find Chase in the kitchen, already making a second cup.

“For you,” he says simply, handing it over like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Neither is the way he stops grumbling when your toiletries start taking over his bathroom. At first, he teased you about it, playfully complaining about your products filling up his counter.

But now? He doesn’t say a word when you leave your moisturizer next to his razor, when your shampoo joins his in the shower, when a spare toothbrush just mysteriously appears next to his own.

And then there are the nights when he invites you over—not for sex, but just to be there.

“We could watch a movie or something,” he suggests one evening, his voice casual, but there’s something tentative in the way he asks.

You blink at him, caught off guard. That’s never been part of whatever this is between you. But you don’t question it, just shrug and agree.

So, you start spending time together in ways that have nothing to do with tangled sheets and heated touches. You sit side by side on his couch, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders.

You cook dinner together, laugh when he burns something, roll your eyes when he insists it’s still edible. You fall asleep next to him without the expectation of sex, just comfortable in the warmth of his presence.

And yet, neither of you says a word about it.

Weeks pass.

Nothing changes, and yet everything has.

You should question it, should demand some kind of clarification, but you don’t. Maybe you don’t want to break whatever spell this is.

Then one night, after another round of slow, lazy sex that feels more like making love than just satisfying a physical need, you find yourself lying in Chase’s bed once again.

You’re on your back, the sheets loosely covering your body, your breath still slowing from the high of it all. Chase is beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you.

You don’t notice at first, too focused on the way the cool air feels against your heated skin. But when you turn your head, you catch him staring.

It’s not lust.

It’s not simple attraction or the sleepy daze of post-sex contentment.

It’s something deeper.

Something warm, something soft.

Something terrifying.

“What?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expect.

Chase doesn’t look away. If anything, his expression softens even more, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re looking at me like you—” You stop yourself before you can say something dangerous.

Like you love me.

The thought sends your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with physical pleasure.

But Chase doesn’t look away, and suddenly, it’s too much.

You sit up, pulling the sheets with you, and turn to face him fully. There’s something pressing against your ribs, a truth you’ve been too afraid to examine.

So, you just say it.

“Are we dating?”

The words hang in the air, thick with meaning.

Chase blinks. His lips part slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the one to say it first. He hesitates, but only for a second.

Then he exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Are we?”

It’s not a no.

And that’s all the answer you need.

You stare at each other for a long moment before Chase reaches out, fingers brushing over your cheek, his touch feather-light but deliberate. He tilts his head, considering, before finally speaking again.

“I think… I think I want to be.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that kind of honesty—not from him, not from yourself. But there it is. The truth of it.

Something inside you unravels, something you didn’t realize you’d been holding onto.

You nod slowly, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too,”

Chase’s fingers slide down to your jaw, his thumb grazing your skin. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and for the first time, it feels different.

It’s not about lust.

It’s not about convenience.

It’s something more.

Something real.

Chase sits in a chair near the corner of the room, his head tipped back, eyes half-closed as though he’s trying to retreat somewhere far away. His chest rises and falls in uneven intervals, the rapid breathing of adrenaline still simmering in his veins.

You stand there for a moment, unsure if he even notices your presence. His usually sharp, sarcastic demeanor has been replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. But it’s the injuries that pull you from your thoughts.

His hand rests against his collar, and you see the blood—deep crimson soaking through the thin fabric of his white shirt. A scratch lines the curve of his jaw, angry and raw, and the knuckles on his right hand are split and bruised, evidence of whatever struggle he had just endured.

“Chase,” you say, your voice a quiet ripple in the silence.

His head tilts slightly, his lashes fluttering open. For a moment, he looks at you as if he doesn’t recognise you, like you’re some phantom conjured by his exhaustion. Then his lips twist into the faintest shadow of a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough, tinged with humour even now. “You missed all the fun,”

You cross the room in a few steps, your focus entirely on him now. There’s no time to quip back, no space for his deflection. Not when you can see the way his shoulders slump, the way he’s trying—and failing—to mask his discomfort.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, sharper than you mean to. But the worry bleeding into your voice softens the sting, and he doesn’t argue. He just watches you, his brow lifting in quiet amusement as you gather the first aid kit from the shelf near the sink.

You return quickly, kneeling in front of him. His legs shift slightly, and you freeze, caught between the slight awkwardness and the overwhelming need to help.

“C’mere,” he says suddenly, his voice a low drawl, and before you can respond, he’s tugging you upward, pulling you into his lap with surprising ease despite his injuries.

“Chase,” you scold, your hands reaching out to steady yourself on his shoulders. He hisses softly as your fingers press against a sore spot, and you immediately retract them, guilt flaring.

“Relax,” he says, leaning back in the chair as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “It’s fine, promise,”

His body is warm beneath you, solid and grounding despite the chaos of the situation. It’s unnerving, but you force yourself to focus.

You tug the first aid kit closer, snapping it open with a decisive motion. Chase watches you, his gaze steady, curious. There’s something in the way he looks at you that always makes your chest tighten, but you ignore it for now, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it in antiseptic.

His hands are resting loosely on your hips, and every so often, you feel the shift of his body under yours—his chest rising and falling, his legs shifting subtly beneath you.

He’s trying to stay still, but you can tell he’s uncomfortable. Not from your presence, but from the sting of the alcohol-soaked cotton you’ve just pressed to the cut above his eyebrow.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” he mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips despite the complaint.

You raise an eyebrow at him, dabbing the cut a little more firmly than you need to. “Don’t be such a baby,” you say, though your voice is soft, affectionate even. “You wrestled a patient twice your size to the ground, and you’re whining about a little antiseptic?”

Chase lets out a soft laugh, his breath warm against your neck as he leans his head back slightly to look up at you. His eyes glimmer, sharp but tinged with the kind of exhaustion you’ve come to recognise after long days like this.

He’s always too proud to admit when he’s reached his limit, but it’s written all over his face now—the faint lines of tension at the corners of his mouth, the way his shoulders sag ever so slightly under the weight of the day.

“I wasn’t whining,” he says, his tone light but teasing. “I was just pointing out that you’re enjoying this way too much,”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, reaching for another cotton pad to clean the scrape along his jaw. “If I were enjoying this, I wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep you from getting an infection. You’re lucky I didn’t just let you bleed all over yourself,”

Chase chuckles again, the sound low and rich, vibrating through you. His hands slide up slightly, settling at the curve of your waist. Not in a possessive way, but in a manner that feels grounding—like he’s anchoring himself to you, letting the comfort of your presence chase away the chaos of the day.

The patient had come in mid-afternoon, a young man with wild eyes and an agitated energy that had set everyone on edge.

House had been the first to engage, of course, his sharp tongue and relentless probing doing nothing to de-escalate the situation.

The tension had boiled over in minutes, and before anyone could react, the man had lashed out—sending charts flying, throwing a chair across the room, and finally lunging at Chase, who had stepped in to try and calm him down.

You’d only caught snippets of the struggle from where you’d been in the hallway—a crash, a sharp grunt of pain, the panicked voices of nurses calling for security.

By the time you’d made it into the room, Chase had the patient pinned to the floor, his expression calm but his breathing ragged, a small trickle of blood running down the side of his face.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in the aftermath of something like this, but it never got any easier.

“You’re quiet,” Chase says now, his voice pulling you back to the present. His eyes search your face, curious but soft, as though he’s trying to read your thoughts without prying too hard. “What’s on your mind?”

You shake your head slightly, focusing on the task at hand. “Just thinking about today,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “It could’ve gone a lot worse,”

Chase nods, his expression sobering. “Yeah, it could’ve. But it didn’t,” He pauses, then adds, “I’m fine, you know,”

You glance at him sharply, the words sparking a flicker of frustration in your chest. “You always say that,” you mutter, setting the used cotton aside and reaching for the bandage tape. “You always brush it off like it’s nothing,”

“Because it is nothing,” he counters, though there’s no heat in his tone. He tilts his head slightly, giving you better access as you press the bandage over the cut across his neck. “This is part of the job. Sometimes things get messy,”

“Messy,” you echo, the word feeling bitter in your mouth. “Chase, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt. That guy was out of control, and you—” You stop yourself, the words catching in your throat.

He reaches up then, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist. The touch is gentle, his thumb tracing a small, reassuring circle against your skin. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. I’m okay,”

You look at him, and for a moment, the weight of your worry feels too heavy to hold back. “It’s not just about today,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s every time. Every time you throw yourself into these situations without thinking about what might happen to you,”

Chase’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he exhales, a quiet sigh that feels heavier than it should. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I don’t mean to make you worry,”

You blink, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He’s always been good at deflecting, at brushing off concern with a charming smile or a clever quip. But this feels different—honest in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I just… I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Not when you mean so much to me,”

Chase’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“You mean a lot to me too,” he says quietly, his hand tightening slightly on your waist.

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You’re not sure what to say—how to put into words the complicated tangle of emotions that’s been building in your chest for weeks, months, maybe even longer.

But Chase seems to understand, even without you saying it. He leans forward slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, the promise soft but steady.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment—the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet reassurance in his voice. For the first time all day, the knot of worry in your chest begins to unravel.

“I know,” you whisper back. “But I’m still going to worry about you.”

Chase chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Fair enough,” he says, his tone lightening again. “But if it makes you feel better, you can keep patching me up whenever I need it. Deal?”

“Am I talking to myself here?” House barks, glaring around the room. His cane taps the ground impatiently as his gaze lands on Chase. “Paging Dr. Kangaroo. You awake over there?”

Chase’s head snaps up. “What? Oh, sorry. Uh, no, I don’t think it’s lupus,”

House narrows his eyes. “Riveting contribution. Anything else you want to share, or should we let your mind wander back to wherever it’s been for the past hour?”

“Leave him alone, House,” you interject, giving Chase a brief, worried glance. His lips twitch upward in what might be an attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something is definitely off.

“Fine,” House drawls, rolling his eyes. “Guess I’ll pick up the slack while Dr. Distracted works through whatever existential crisis is happening over there. Foreman, Cameron—go start the tests. Chase, try to remember that thinking is part of your job.”

The meeting dissolves, and you find yourself walking alongside Chase as the team disperses. The hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro are as busy as ever, but all you can focus on is the man beside you. His silence feels heavy, and you can’t help but press.

“You okay?” you ask softly, glancing up at him. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day,”

Chase hesitates, the corner of his mouth quirking like he’s debating how to answer. Finally, he shakes his head and offers a rueful chuckle. “I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind,”

“Clearly,” You nudge him gently with your shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

His expression softens at that, and for a moment, you think he might actually open up. But instead, he leans down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “I know. Thanks. But I’m good, I promise,”

You’re not convinced, but you let it slide for now. Chase has always had a tendency to internalise things, preferring to work through his emotions privately. Still, you make a mental note to check in with him later.

—

The hum of the MRI machine fills the small room, a low, steady noise that makes conversation feel oddly intimate. Foreman is adjusting settings on the console while Chase stands by the monitor, staring at the patient’s scan with a blank expression.

Foreman notices. “Okay, what’s going on with you?” he asks, leaning back against the counter.

“What do you mean?” Chase replies, though his voice lacks conviction.

“You’ve been distracted all day,” Foreman says. “More than usual. It’s not like you to zone out during a differential. And don’t try to tell me it’s the case, because I’m not buying it,”

Chase hesitates, glancing over at the patient through the observation window. Once he’s sure she can’t hear, he exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “There’s...something on my mind.”

Foreman waits, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Chase shifts awkwardly, clearly debating whether to say more. Finally, he blurts out, “I want to propose.”

Foreman blinks. “Propose? As in marriage?”

“Yes, marriage,” Chase says, his tone somewhere between exasperation and nervous laughter. “What else would I be proposing?”

Foreman grins. “Okay, calm down. You’re just...really worked up about this, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Chase mutters, leaning on the counter. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, trying to figure out the right way to do it. It has to be perfect,”

Foreman gives him a skeptical look. “Does it? She loves you, man. She’s not going to care if it’s perfect,”

Chase shakes his head. “I care. I want it to be special. Something she’ll remember forever,”

Foreman shrugs. “Look, I’m not exactly the romantic type, but here’s what I think: you’re overthinking it. You’ve been with her long enough to know she’ll say yes. Just do it,”

Chase frowns. “That’s it? Just do it? That’s your advice?”

“Yeah,” Foreman says with a shrug. “Why make it more complicated than it needs to be?”

Chase doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods. “I’ll think about it.”

—

The case wraps up late in the evening, the patient stabilised and diagnosed after a long day of tests and deliberation. The team gathers in the conference room for a quick debrief, but everyone is clearly exhausted.

House dismisses you all with a wave of his cane, muttering something about needing to bother Wilson. One by one, the others file out, leaving you and Chase alone.

You glance at him, noting the tension in his posture. He’s been like this all day—nervous, restless. You’re about to ask him about it again when he suddenly turns to you, his expression oddly intense.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, his voice low.

“Of course,” you reply, a little startled by his tone.

He takes a deep breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. For a moment, he seems to hesitate, as if he’s trying to find the right words. Then, in one quick, almost panicked burst, he blurts out:

“Will you marry me?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Will you marry me?” he repeats, his voice softer this time. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, a mixture of hope and fear that makes your heart ache.

For a moment, you just stare at him, too stunned to speak. He fidgets under your gaze, his hands moving as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I—I know this isn’t the most romantic way to ask,” he stammers. “I had this whole plan, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I just… I couldn’t wait anymore,”

Your lips twitch, and before you know it, you’re laughing. Not because you think it’s funny, but because the whole situation is so completely Chase—overthinking everything until he just dives in headfirst.

“Are you serious?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Completely.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “Chase, you’re unbelievable,”

He winces. “Is that a no?”

“No!” you say quickly, stepping closer to him. “It’s not a no. I’m just… surprised, that’s all,”

“So— it’s a yes, then?” he asks, his voice hesitant.

You smile, your chest swelling with warmth. “Yes. Of course it’s a yes,”

The relief on his face is almost comical. He lets out a breath he must have been holding for hours and pulls you into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your hair. “I wanted to make it perfect,”

“It was perfect,” you assure him, your voice muffled against his chest. “Because it was you, but blurting it out in the middle of the conference room?” You chuckle.

Chase groans, burying his face further into your hair. “I panicked, okay? Foreman told me to go with my gut,”

“And your gut told you to propose at work?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice muffled. Then he peeks at your face, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I guess it wasn’t so bad, though,”

You laugh, leaning into him. “No, it wasn’t. It was… very you,”

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. “I’ll plan something better. A nice dinner, or a trip, or—”

“Chase,” you interrupt, placing a hand on his chest. “You don’t have to make it up to me. This is exactly how it was supposed to happen,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling up at him. “Now stop overthinking it and just enjoy the moment,”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll try,”