We've been doing this a lot lately and he's had to have noticed, though he's probably trying to not dwell on it too much. For all his confrontation and analysis, Wilson is pretty good at avoiding facts when he wants to.

Our words are the same but we're acting differently. Sitting too close on the couch. Knees knocking under the table at lunch. Wilson's been touching my arm briefly in farewell, never looking me in the eyes when he does. I play with the pens in his pocket-protector while we talk.

It all might even be cute if it wasn't so weird.

And now we're both lying on my bed, fully clothed with our feet touching. There's a game on that we're not watching, and I don't know what the hell Wilson wants from me right now. He had a hard day at work and he's tired and burned out, but he still showed up at my door with dark shadows under his eyes.

When I limped to my room he followed. I know that he's actually feeling down when he doesn't bother puffing out sighs, which he only does for show anyway.

I scoot closer on the bed to him after a few silent minutes. If I can get him to feel better, we might get to catch the last half of the game.

I lay my head next to his so that we're sharing a pillow, turning on my side and matching up a few body parts- my knees to his leg, my  hand on his stomach, my chest against his shoulder.

"House?" He waits a beat before saying it, but the word itself is out fast, borderline plead and question. He doesn't move.

Something in me needs to calm him down; the room is dark and cool, and his mood seems out of place and wrong. I feel oddly calm.

"It's okay," I murmur to him, and my even voice probably makes more of an impact than the words themselves do. My fingertips skid over the top of his light blue button down, feeling him relax. I kiss the side of his head above his ear, his hair soft against my mouth. Of course it is.

He doesn't ask why, or the more significant why now, instead shifting into me softly.