You walk into the diagnostics department just in time to see him leaning too close to one of the nurses—hand grazing her clipboard, lips curled into a smirk that’s entirely too charming for his usual apathy.

Your stomach twists.

House doesn’t flirt. Not like this. Not unless he wants someone to notice.

And you do.

You slam your notes on the counter louder than necessary. You don’t say a word, but he doesn’t need you to. Your glare hits him harder than a diagnosis he can’t solve.

He glances up, eyes locking with yours like a challenge.

“Oh,” he says, voice slow and sharp, “didn’t know we were monogamous.”

You scoff, turning away—but not before you catch the flicker of something dark and pleased in his gaze

You’re seething. He’s watching. And the game has just begun.