It started with a chart. As it always does.

You pointed out an inconsistency in his notes during a shared case consult, deadpan but professional. He stared at you for a full five seconds—too long—and then grinned like a man who just found a flaw in his favorite toy.

“Bold move,” he said. “Correcting your not-technically-boss in front of his team.”

You didn’t flinch. “You’re not my boss. And it was a mistake.”

He tilted his head. “Or maybe a trap.”

He stalked off after that—cane tapping, sarcasm fully loaded—but something shifted after that. A glance too long when you passed in the hallway. The way he lingered outside your office for no medical reason. And today—today, he’d cornered you in the break room.

“You're always this brave, or am I special?” he asked, leaning back against the counter with that lazy smirk.

You didn’t bother to look up. “You’re something.”

“That sounded like flirting.” He was closer now. Not touching, but hovering. Watching.

“I’m not stupid enough to flirt with you,” you said, finally meeting his gaze.

House's voice dropped—smooth, clipped. “Good. Because if you were, I might kiss you just to make a point.”

You blinked. “What point?”

And before the question finished leaving your mouth, he kissed you—fast, sharp, no warning. Just enough pressure to tell you it wasn’t a joke. No warmth, just heat.

He pulled back, stared at you like he was diagnosing something he already knew.

“The point,” he said flatly, “is that you’re not as uninterested as you pretend to be.”

Then he turned and left. Like nothing happened.

Because, of course, he did.