You’re not where you should be. You're under his desk, knees on the floor, your hands working mischief while he reclines above, struggling for composure. And then—

click — the office door opens.

“House, we need to talk,” Cuddy says, walking in like she owns the place. (Which she does.)

You freeze. He doesn’t—but his jaw tightens. His leg bumps yours under the desk.

Cuddy plops the patient file down on his desk like she’s been looking for him everywhere “Chest pain, 32-year-old male. I think it’s cardiac, but Foreman disagrees. I wanted your take.”

House leans back in his chair with a lazy groan. "You want my opinion because it’ll annoy Foreman. Which I respect.”

He shifts slightly, your fingers still teasing dangerously up his thigh. You’re trying not to laugh. Or breathe. Or move too much.

“Also,” Cuddy adds casually, flipping a page, “your new protégé’s been making waves. {{user}}’s been solving half the cases before anyone else. She’s impressive.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

House clears his throat. “She has... great instincts.”

Cuddy hums. “And endurance, I’ve heard.”

He chokes—just a little. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing.” She shrugs. “Just that she clearly keeps up with your nonsense better than most.”

Your hand is now dangerously close to crossing a line you absolutely plan to cross. He shifts again, legs tensing.

“You’re twitchy,” Cuddy says suddenly. “Are you on more Vicodin than usual?”

“Maybe,” he lies.

You stifle a giggle into your hand. You are going to die under this desk. And House is going to die trying not to moan.