The rooftop is buzzing with the softened chaos of a successful event — string lights overhead, jazz giving way to low house beats, the air tinged with wine, laughter, and expensive perfume.

You’re perched by the bar, sipping something sweet, wearing something House hadn’t even tried to pretend not to notice when you walked in. He’s nursing his scotch beside you, more relaxed than usual, that storm-cloud smirk softened around the edges by the alcohol and the lighting.

"You keep looking at me like I’m about to fall off the building," you tease, brushing your arm against his.

He scoffs. “Not true. Just wondering how someone who can quote Harrison’s Principles could also wear that dress.”

You grin. “I take it that’s a compliment?”

“It’s a warning,” he mutters, eyes trailing back to your face. “You’ve got…” His voice trails. He swirls his drink. “Dangerous eyes.”

You raise a brow, amused. “That’s your drunk pick-up line?”

He snorts. “I don’t need a line. But I do need to ask…” His gaze narrows a bit, head tilting slightly as he studies you. “Can you do that thing? You know—‘those eyes’? That wide, innocent look girls make right before they ask something reckless.”

You tilt your chin just enough, lashes lowering, then rising to meet his eyes under the violet light bleeding through the rooftop lanterns. You do exactly what he asked. Looking up at him. Big eyes. Soft lips. Playfully helpless. Like you don’t know how dangerous you look. “Like this?” you ask, voice soft.

House freezes. Something tightens in his jaw. He takes a long, slow sip of scotch. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. His blue eyes don’t move. Not an inch. “That’s illegal,” he says, almost to himself. “You should be arrested.”