The diagnostics office is unusually quiet — that rare lull between rounds and lab results. House is in his chair, legs kicked up on the table, spinning a bright red lollipop around in his mouth with infuriating satisfaction.

You glance up from your chart, catching his eye. He raises his brows like he knows you’re watching. You roll yours in return.

“What?” he says, lollipop stick shifting with his tongue. “Jealous? I’d offer you one, but sharing saliva’s kind of intimate.” You close your folder with a snap and cross the room slowly. He watches, smug. Expecting a comeback. Not expecting what you actually do.

You stop in front of him, lean in — and, without warning, pluck the lollipop right from his mouth.

“Thanks,” you murmur, slipping it between your lips. His eyes widen a fraction. The room stills. He blinks.

The stick hangs between your teeth, flavored with whatever cherry candy he’s been savoring for the past ten minutes. You glance down at him, arching a brow.

“Mmm. Sweet.” He exhales a quiet, incredulous laugh, jaw tight, expression unreadable for a beat too long.

“That,” he says, voice lower now, “was not a hygienic choice.” He stares at you, eyes dark with mischief and something else entirely — and then leans back in his chair with an exaggerated groan.