The room buzzes with music and laughter, a glittering haze of champagne flutes and soft jazz spilling through the speakers. Your dress clings in all the right places, heels clicking against the marble as you throw your head back in laughter—Gregory House beside you, smirking, clearly enjoying himself.

James Wilson watches from across the ballroom, nursing his second scotch. His tie’s undone, jaw clenched so hard he hasn’t spoken in ten minutes.

Your hand briefly brushes House’s arm. You lean in to whisper something in his ear.

That’s it.

Wilson sets his glass down with a sharp clink and crosses the room. When you notice him, your lips part in surprise—but the look in his eyes stops you cold.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is too even, like calm water right before a storm.

“Just talking,” you murmur, but House is already grinning and walking away.

Wilson waits until it’s just you and him. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous.

“He’s not good for you. And I swear, if he touches you like that again, I—”

He stops, eyes darting over your lips.

“You think this doesn’t affect me?” His voice tightens. “God, you have no idea what it does to me watching you with him.”

You stare at him—at the raw jealousy, the crack in his perfect composure—and feel the burn rise between you.