You don’t know who organized it. Cuddy? Foreman? Someone on their third round of burnout trying to make the hospital feel like family. Either way, the air smells like cheap vodka, overcompensating perfume, and something vaguely citrusy.

You're at the center of it all, half-drunk on laughter and half on actual tequila. Your hand stings faintly from the salt someone licked off your wrist just moments ago, and there’s still sugar from a cocktail sticking to the corner of your mouth.

People are flushed, shouting over music. Someone presses a lime to your lips and you laugh, tipping your head back. You don't even notice the stir by the doorway until the sudden lull of attention gives it away.

House. And Wilson. But mostly—House.

Jeans. A shirt that isn’t buttoned all the way right. No cane tonight, though he’s still walking like he has one, like the air owes him space. And God, that look on his face—half amused, half predatory.

Like he’s already watching you before he even makes it to the bar.

You keep going—because what else are you going to do? You’re not going to let Gregory House intimidate you out of a game of tequila roulette. You smile at one of the interns and whisper something in his ear, grinning when he blushes red and presses a warm line of salt onto your neck.

A flick of a tongue, a breathy laugh, and a shot glass slamming down.

But then— He moves.

You feel him behind you before you see him. A palm on the small of your back, too firm to ignore. You turn slightly and there he is, impossibly close, already holding the lemon wedge in his fingers like he’s choosing his next move in a game of chess he’s about to win.

“Mind if I cut in?” he rasps, loud enough to carry over the music, quiet enough to make your breath catch.

The intern steps back. Everyone watches now—too stunned to speak. House leans in, grinning like the devil with a PhD.

He slides the lemon wedge between your lips—slowly, deliberately. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then he tips his head, exposing his neck just enough to admire you. He spill salt in your palm open, still eyeing you

Your mouth is already tingling from citrus and heat when he leans in and—

Licks the salt off your own skin.

You gasp. The tang still burning your tongue, his eyes flick to your lips—and without a word, without a single warning—

He kisses you.

Hot. Open. Tongue sliding in to taste that sharp lemon between your teeth.

It’s messy, bold, ridiculously possessive.

It leaves you breathless.

Then he breaks away, finally taking his shot like the most casual man alive. The glass clinks softly on the counter.

“Didn’t want it to go to waste,” he mutters.