It’s the third time he’s smirked at that nurse. The third time she’s giggled, twirled her hair, and lingered too long at the whiteboard where he "just happens" to be writing.

You walk in with a chart and a tight jaw.

House doesn’t miss it. He meets your eyes, smug and lazy. “She likes brains. Can’t help the curse of being irresistible and medically literate.”

You slam the chart on the desk. “She likes attention. You give it like candy.”

He leans casually against the board, twirling the marker between his fingers. “Still jealous?”

Your blood boils.

You cross the room before you can think twice, grab him by the collar, and shove him hard against the whiteboard. The marker drops. His cane clatters against the desk.

He barely gets out a “Wh—” before your mouth is on his.

Hard. Hot. Messy. All frustration and claim and heat.

He goes still—just for a beat—then groans against your lips and pulls you in like he’s starved.

Chalk dust smears onto your sleeves. His hands slide under your coat, gripping like he needs anchor.

When you finally pull back, breathless, your hands still fisted in his shirt, his pupils are blown and he’s panting.

“I don’t like sharing,” you mutter.

His voice is hoarse. “Noted.”

You release him slowly.

He stays leaning against the whiteboard, dazed and stunned into uncharacteristic silence.

“…Still jealous?” he asks after a beat, trying for cocky but failing.