It was one of those rare nights when the interns had the nerve to throw a party and actually invite House.

Not that he said yes. Wilson dragged him.

The music pulsed through the walls of the apartment. Strings of lights blinked overhead, bottles clinked in the kitchen, and the unmistakable rhythm of bachata hummed from the speakers like a warning.

House stood near the hallway, nursing a drink, eyes scanning the crowd with mild disdain… until they stopped. Froze.

You were laughing—laughing—as Foreman stood behind you, teaching you the slow rhythm of the dance. His hand guided your hip. His fingers brushed your bare waist. Your steps faltered, then locked in.

The sway of your body was slow and smooth, your mouth slightly parted as you bit a smile.

Foreman leaned in to say something in your ear.

House’s jaw twitched.

“Didn’t think you were the dancing type,” Wilson muttered beside him. “I’m not,” House said, barely looking away. “But I’m definitely the homicide type right now.” He watched your hands reach back to steady yourself on Foreman’s shoulder, the way you tilted your head back when you laughed. That laugh used to be his win.

Now it felt like a dare.

He didn’t move. Just stared, drink untouched, the only still thing in the room as jealousy burned low and brutal in his chest.

Because you were supposed to look like that for him.

And if Foreman’s hands didn’t come off your waist soon…