The silence in his apartment isn’t heavy—it’s wired. Loaded. Humming. You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, your scrubs half unzipped, cheeks flushed from laughter and wine, and something in his eyes is dangerous. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just… intent.

He leans against the kitchen counter across from you, eyes dragging over your frame, slow like he’s reading the final page of a book he’s been obsessed with.

“You gonna keep teasing me,” you murmur, “or finally do something about it?”

He tilts his head. That smirk—lazy, sharp, lethal. “Oh, I’m going to do something.”

And then—

He pushes off the counter, walks toward you, and without breaking eye contact—sinks to his knees.

You gasp. Actually gasp. No pain. No hesitation. No limp.

Just Gregory House, on the floor between your knees, his hands on your thighs, voice low and thick with heat.

You whimper. He grins—dark and sure and devastating—before leaning in and placing the softest kiss just above your knee.

“You okay, intern?” he purrs.

You nod, shaky.

“Mm-mm.” He slides his hands higher. “Use your words. Or I might get mean.”