The lights are low, the hallway silent—everyone else has gone home, but you’re not even sure what time it is anymore.

You’re pressed up against one of the bookshelves, his mouth on yours like he’s starved for you, like the whole day’s tension snapped the second the door clicked shut.

Hands in your hair. Your fingers tangled in his shirt. Breathless and warm and a little desperate. He’s not gentle, not careful—but he’s present. More than he’s ever been with anyone.

His lips move down your jaw, your throat—nipping, teasing. He murmurs something sharp against your skin, maybe a joke, maybe a groan, but your breath hitches, and then—

You whimper. Just a whisper—half a moan, half a plea—but in French: “Mon Dieu… t’arrête pas…”

House stills. Completely.

His hands pause at your waist, his mouth hovering just above your collarbone. You feel his breath falter, his body go still against yours.

Then— He slowly pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide and burning, his pupils blown, lips flushed and parted. But it’s not lust on his face—it’s awe. “…You’re kidding me.”

You blink, a little dazed, flushed. “What?”

He exhales, like you just hit him somewhere soft. “You speak French.”

You nod slowly, lips still damp. “A little…”

“And you say that? In the middle of this?” He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours. But now his voice has changed—lower, more reverent. “You just whispered ‘My God, don’t stop’… Do you know what that does to a man with a mouth on your neck?”

You laugh, breathless, but it turns into another soft noise when he kisses you again—this time slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize how you taste when you speak a language he didn’t expect to want to worship.

“Répète-le.”

Say it again.

And when you do—he obeys like it’s an order.