The restaurant was dimly lit and elegant, a place House would’ve mocked in front of others—but not tonight. Tonight, he was upright, standing tall without the cane, walking like a man unshackled from years of agony. You’d watched him from across the table, something different in his eyes: not just ease, not just freedom—but hunger.

He didn’t make crude jokes. Didn’t push dessert across the table with a raised brow. He simply paid the bill and stood, offering his hand—no limp, no hesitation—and you followed like gravity was pulling you behind him.

Now you’re in his apartment. The door barely clicks shut behind you before he’s on you.

There’s no stalling, no fumbling. His hands are on your waist, his mouth crashing onto yours with a groan that’s almost frustrated. It’s like he’s been waiting years. Maybe he has. Maybe the pain held him back, but now—now he wants everything at once.

He backs you into the wall, lips trailing along your jaw, teeth grazing your neck. « You have no idea,” he breathes, voice dark and breathless, “what I wanted to do to you… all the times I couldn’t.”

Your gasp is cut short as he lifts you—lifts you—like the pain was never real, like you weigh nothing, like you’re his new obsession. He carries you to the couch, and something shifts in his gaze as you arch beneath him.

“You’re not getting out of this one with snark,” he mutters against your skin, mouth trailing lower, slow and relentless.