House's place was cluttered, low-lit — the kind of apartment that smelled faintly of old books, scotch, and something low simmering on the stove. The sound of vinyl crackled somewhere in the background, jazz rolling in lazily like fog through open windows.

You were perched on one of his kitchen stools, sleeves rolled up, sipping wine out of a mug he definitely didn’t wash first. And he? He was leaning against the counter, legs crossed, distractedly fingering something from his pocket.

A cigar.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s what tonight is now?”

He didn’t answer at first — just snipped the end with a satisfying little snap. “Never tried one?”

You shrugged. “Once. I coughed like a dying engine.”

That earned a smirk. “Then you didn’t do it right.”

He stepped forward, slow. Flicked his lighter once, twice — flame dancing. Then, without asking, he took the cigar between two fingers and offered it to you, tilting his head with that half-sincere challenge in his eyes.

“Mouth open. Trust me.”

You blinked. He was close. Maybe too close. But you parted your lips anyway. He placed the cigar there gently, carefully. Two fingers lingering just a second too long at your chin, thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip like he wasn’t sure if this was provocation or foreplay.

“Don’t inhale,” he murmured, low, like he was talking secrets instead of tobacco. “Just let it sit. Taste it. Own it.”

He lit the tip, eyes never leaving yours. Smoke curled between you. The bitter-sweet burn hit your tongue. You exhaled, slow. Not coughing this time. You were too focused on how his gaze dropped to your lips, then your throat, then slowly climbed its way back up.

“Better,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “Very... hot librarian goes rogue energy.”