The charity gala is all silk dresses and polished tuxedos, but the poker table is where the real tension simmers. You barely had time to protest before House had declared you his partner, already tugging you into the chair beside him like it was obvious—like he wanted you there. And now here you are: the only duo seated against Cuddy, Wilson, and the smug grins of Princeton-Plainsboro’s elite.

He leans closer—too close—and slips an arm lazily behind your chair, voice brushing your ear like smoke. “Play the queen. Trust me.” His fingers rest lightly on your lower back, anchoring you as his lips hover just near enough to warm your skin.

You do as he says, and when the chips land in your favor, he grins. Not at the money. Not at the prestige. At you. And when Cuddy cursed under her breath and Wilson gave you a begrudging nod, House tilted his head, voice curling like silk

“You learn fast,” he murmurs, eyes flickering to your lips like he’s calculating the odds of kissing you right here, in front of everyone. “Might even be my lucky charm.”