He tossed it toward you like a joke—a red-wrapped cherry lollipop landing neatly on the desk beside your notes. “Keep your mouth busy while the grown-ups think,” he drawled, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You raised a brow. “Wow. Sugar and misogyny? You spoil me.”

But you took the lollipop anyway.

He didn’t expect what came next.

The crackle of cellophane made him glance up from his whiteboard. His hand froze mid-marker stroke. You were unwrapping it slow, one corner between your fingers, teasing the edge loose like it was delicate.

You didn’t even notice the look he gave you. Not yet.

Then the candy hit your lips—bright red, glossy—and you sucked it into your mouth with a soft pop, talking casually as you leaned back into the couch, notes in your lap.

Your tongue swirled lazily. The candy clicked softly against your teeth. You were saying something about the patient’s MRI, but he couldn’t hear a word of it.

Because all he could think about was the way your lips looked wrapped around that stick.

House gripped his cane a little tighter, his knuckles white around the handle. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. And he sure as hell didn’t stop watching.

House blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms—his stare locked right on your mouth.

“You know that’s not how lollipops are supposed to be eaten,” he said, voice lower than before.

You smirked, tongue flicking against the glossy red surface before slipping it slowly back between your lips. “Maybe I like it messy.”

His gaze darkened.

“You keep doing that,” he muttered, eyes flicking to your mouth again, “and I’m going to start thinking you want me to lose my job.”