It was supposed to be one joint.

Just one.

He said it like a joke, pulling it from a drawer with that guilty smile of his—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes, softens the stress lines on his forehead, makes you forget he’s Dr. James Wilson, Princeton-Plainsboro’s golden boy.

“A grateful patient,” he said with a shrug, like that explained the stash. Like it excused the fact that you’re now sitting cross-legged on his living room floor with your head tilted back against the couch and your laughter echoing off his artfully beige walls.

The world is fuzzy and warm. Everything feels lighter. Your cheeks ache from smiling. And Wilson? He’s just—gone. Head thrown back, giggling like he hasn’t in a decade. He nearly chokes when you mimic House’s voice, grabbing his shoulder and wheezing between gasps.

“You can’t say that!” he says, laughing harder.

“You’re the one who laughed!”

You’re close—closer than you realized. When you lean over to grab the lighter again, your hand brushes his thigh, and neither of you move.

He glances at you.

God, those brown eyes.

Still laughing—but there’s something behind it now. Something slower, thicker than the high. His gaze drops to your lips and lingers just a moment too long.

And maybe it’s the weed or the warmth or the years of unspoken things building like pressure in a fault line—but you reach out, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, and kiss him.

His lips are soft. He’s still smiling into it, like he can’t believe it’s happening.

And then he’s kissing you back.

Harder.

Slower.

Better.