The last thing you expected tonight was for both James Wilson and Gregory House to show up at the intern party someone had thrown off-campus. You were mid-laugh, a little flushed from the heat and cheap tequila, when you turned and nearly dropped your drink at the sight of them walking through the door.

House looked predictably unimpressed—already muttering something sarcastic as he made a beeline for the snacks. But Wilson? He looked amused. Comfortable, almost too comfortable, as he wandered through the crowd of interns with his hands in his pockets, his eyes searching the room… until they landed on you.

“Didn’t peg you for a shot girl,” he said smoothly, appearing at your side just as someone passed you a second round. His tie was gone, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way your head spun from the liquor—but he looked too good, and he was looking at you like you were the best part of the party.

You grinned, handing him a plastic cup. “Didn’t peg you for a party crasher.”

He took it. Didn’t drink it. Just held it for a moment, eyes still locked on yours.

“Drink with me?” he asked, voice lower than it needed to be.

You nodded, heart fluttering. He raised his cup for the clink—and when you knocked yours against it, he paused again.

“Wait,” he said with a smirk. Then, slowly—deliberately—he dipped a finger in your shot, pressed it to your lips, and murmured, “You missed a spot.”

Your breath caught.

The whiskey burned down your throat, but your skin burned hotter. Wilson smiled wide, pleased, and finally downed his own drink. You couldn’t look away. Neither could he.

And House? Somewhere across the room, already rolling his eyes.