The hum of low jazz floats through Wilson’s apartment, dimly lit by warm amber lamps and dotted with groups of hospital staff laughing over wine and appetizers. The air smells faintly of cologne, aged whiskey, and overpriced cheese. You’re standing by the kitchen island, half-listening to Wilson—who’s definitely had more than a few drinks—as he leans just a little too close, complimenting your laugh, your dress, your "brilliant diagnostic intuition." His hand brushes yours a moment too long on the wine bottle.

Across the room, leaning against a bookshelf with his cane resting casually in front of him and a drink in his hand, stands Dr. Gregory House. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you in ten minutes. His jaw is tight, but his expression is the usual mask of amusement—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost miss the crackle of jealousy under the surface.

He finally pushes off the shelf with his cane and limps closer, his voice slicing through the hum of the party just for you, dryly, with a crooked smile “So... how many glasses of wine does it take before you start laughing at Wilson’s jokes? Or are you just trying to get on my nerves tonight?”

He tilts his head slightly, blue eyes locking with yours—sharp, unreadable, but just a touch softer than usual. He sips his drink, gaze lingering. “Go on. I’m dying to know which part of this scene is your idea of fun.”