House’s apartment — dim, warm lighting. His stereo plays something sultry. You’re on his lap in the living room, kissing like the world’s about to end.

Your shirt’s halfway off. His hands are under it, warm and unapologetic. The taste of wine still on your tongue. His mouth finds your neck and he groans, low and quiet.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters against your skin.

“You started it,” you whisper back, fingers tangled in his hair.

You're straddling him on the couch. The room is pulsing with something you don’t name. Your breath’s ragged, his pupils blown wide. And then—

Knock knock.

You both freeze.

Another knock. Harder. Wilson.

“House, open up. I know you’re in there. Your bike’s outside.”

You shoot upright. “Shit.”

House sighs like he’s inconvenienced, but his eyes flicker—heat still there, but now mixed with adrenaline. He grabs your wrist, pulls you up. “There,” he mutters, and gently—but firmly—guides you behind the door.

“You’re not wearing pants,” you hiss.

“Even better,” he says, voice smug. “Makes it more fun.”

He swings open the door, keeping his body angled just enough to shield you behind it, but not completely. You’re there, heart pounding, body still humming, hidden but exposed. If Wilson even leans sideways—he’ll see.

“What do you want, Jimmy?” House says, eyes half-lidded, lips still swollen.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I brought the scans you asked for—are you okay? You look... flushed.”

“Had a visitor.” He glances toward the door like it’s a private joke.

You breathe, quiet as you can. Your pulse is chaos. Wilson almost peers past him. House steps slightly to block the view. But not entirely.

His hand drifts behind the door, casually running fingers up your thigh like he’s reading braille. You slap at it, silent. He smirks.

Wilson begin to talk about a patient. Something about a mysterious bacteria, that seems so little interesting when House's hand brush just under your pantie, while talking to his friend.