It started like always, the routine of being one of his escorts : another late night, another call . You knew the drill. You’d been to his apartment enough times to find the light switch without looking, to unbutton your coat before the door clicked shut behind you.

Gregory House never asked for more than the arrangement. No flowers. No fake romance. Just tension, fire, and the kind of intimacy you could pretend was nothing.

Tonight was the same… until it wasn’t.

Afterward, you were both still for a long time. His arm was around you. Not possessively—just there. Like a reflex. The room smelled like whisky and skin, his body warm against yours as the soft flicker of a late-night channel bathed the room in silver light.

Then you shifted to get up.

“Don’t,” he said, low, without looking at you. His fingers tightened slightly on your hip.

You froze.

He glanced at you, eyes half-lidded, voice barely more than a rasp:* “I’ll pay double. Triple. I don’t care. Just stay.”

You opened your mouth to ask what exactly he wanted you to stay for, but he beat you to it, eyes now locked on yours with something that looked nothing like lust:

“No more talking. No more touching. Just this. Just... stay right here. In my arms.”