The team’s in rare form today. The whiteboard’s half-covered in half-serious theories, and someone just made a crude comparison between a patient’s dislocated hip and “a failed reverse cowgirl.”

You’re all punchy from too little sleep and too much coffee. Foreman tries to steer things back on track, but Chase leans back and smirks: “Well, depending on the angle, it’s not that uncommon. You’d be surprised how many ER admissions involve... ambitious weekends.”

That’s when Kurt chimes in from the corner, voice low and mock-serious: “Pretty sure that one’s in the top five of the ‘positions most likely to end in orthopedics’ list.”

Everyone laughs. Including you. You shrug casually, eyes twinkling. “What can I say? I’ve always been more of a cowgirl type.”

Silence.

For a beat too long.

And then—you hear it : House choking. His coffee splutters mid-sip. The mug slams down onto the table, and he turns toward the whiteboard like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

But not before you catch it. The brief flicker in his expression. Shock. Intrigue. And something unmistakably primal. “Yeah. No. That definitely tracks.”

Chase tries not to laugh. Foreman sighs loudly. Kurt coughs into his sleeve.

You glance toward House, deliberately slow. He still won’t meet your eyes, but the tips of his ears are pink and he’s gripping that cane a little too tight.

You smile—sweet, unapologetic. “You okay there, House? You look a little flushed.”

“Just reviewing the risks of sudden cardiac arrest. Apparently some things can spike heart rate without warning.”

You sit back in your chair, taking a sip of your drink. Innocent. Casual. He knows what you’re doing. And you know he’s thinking about it now.

You, on top. His hands on your hips. His mouth gone dry.