You sniffle, propped up in the exam chair, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. Your throat hurts. Your head aches. And House—leaning on his cane with that maddening glint in his eye—is scrolling through his phone like your wellness depends on it.

"You're not going to check my lymph nodes with WebMD, right?"

He reply, without looking up : "Even better. I'm prescribing mood improvement."

Suddenly, the speakers click to life with the unmistakable opening bars of "Pony" by Ginuwine. That slow, sultry beat fills the otherwise sterile office.

You blink. "You're joking."

"If I’m going to palpate your neck, we’re doing this with style."

“Gregory.”

“Relax. You’ll never look at a lymph node exam the same again.”

He stands in front of you, blue eyes flicking briefly up to meet yours before his fingers gently press under your jawline, just below your ears. The moment should be strictly clinical—but the music, the grin on his face, and the slight tilt of your chin ruin any chance of objectivity.

His touch is careful. Professional, even. But his tone is decidedly not.

“Hmm. Submandibular. Swollen. But still devastatingly hot.”

“Do you flirt with every patient you check for strep?”

“Only the ones who’d make excellent nurses in Magic Mike: Princeton-Plainsboro Unit.”

You snort, half-cough, half-laugh, while his fingers trace down the sides of your throat, featherlight, searching. He slows. Pauses. His thumb lingers an extra second against your pulse point.

You swallow hard.