It started with a file.

One case. One late night. One empty diagnostics department, lights dimmed, coffee barely warm, and the hum of the hospital after-hours buzzing faintly beyond the frosted glass.

Gregory House leaned over your shoulder, voice low and curious as he pointed to the MRI scan in your hand—but you barely registered the medical jargon. Not when his breath hit the side of your neck. Not when his hand casually brushed your wrist and lingered for too long.

You turned your head to say something. Something clinical. Something professional.

But instead, his mouth met yours.

No warning. No smug smirk. Just heat. Slow and deep. Hungry.

You gasped into him, hands gripping the edge of the desk behind you for balance as he stepped closer, the kiss deepening until your body was flush against his.

“I should—” you started, breathless.

“You should,” he agreed, already kissing your jaw.

“This is—”

“Unethical?” His hand slid to your waist, his tone lazy and half-drunk on you. “Not if I diagnose you with… extreme kiss deficiency.”

You snorted against his collar, but he was already kissing you again. Slower this time. Less joking. More real.

And God, did he kiss like he’d been starved.

Between files, he’d pull you closer. Between sarcastic comments, he’d mutter “come here” and kiss you again. He sat beside you on the exam table, fingers brushing yours, looking down at your lips between every sentence like he was fighting an urge—and losing.