You walked in with a white paper bag and a hopeful heart.

A dozen donuts. Your peace offering after a brutal 36-hour shift and two arguments—one about a diagnosis, the other about the definition of "affection," which, according to House, didn’t include subtle acts like staying late just because he was in a bad mood.

He didn’t look up when you set the bag down. He was lounging on the diagnostics room couch, legs stretched out, tossing a pen in the air like it was his job.

“You brought sugar and transfats,” he said without looking. “So either you’re guilty, or in love.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching in and carefully pulling out the one donut you’d been thinking about since 4 a.m.—maple glazed, soft, perfect. Just as you were about to take a bite, a hand snatched it midair.

“What the hell—House!”

He was already halfway through the first bite, chewing slowly. Like, deliberately slowly. “Mmm,” he hummed, licking his lips as sugar clung to his mouth. “God, this one’s really good. You sure you didn’t want this one?”

Your jaw dropped.

“You knew I did.”

He didn’t even try to hide the smirk. “You should’ve moved faster. In this hospital, it’s survival of the fittest. Or the smug.”

His tongue traced the edge of the frosting like he was auditioning for a problem. Then he caught your eye and paused.

“You gonna stop me?” he murmured. “Or just keep looking like you wanna lick it off me?”