The lights are low. Everyone else is gone.

You're still at House's desk, arguing about a case—again—but it’s stopped being about the patient ten minutes ago. Your hands are on the desk behind you. His cane is leaning somewhere forgotten. His palm presses beside your hip.

“You’re unusually smug today,” you murmur, refusing to back down.

He steps closer, voice low. “And you’re unusually distracting.”

You tilt your chin. “Not my fault you can’t focus.”

He smirks—and leans in.

His breath fans against your jaw. His fingers brush your waist like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

“You think you fluster me?” he asks, voice dark silk. “Keep dreaming.”

Just when the air’s about to break—BEEP.

Your pager vibrates harshly against your hip.

House groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Seriously?”

You pull back with a breathless laugh. “Duty calls.”

But before you can move, his hand presses lightly at your hip.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs. Not a joke. Not a tease.

A promise.