His apartment is dim, quiet. A record hums low from the corner, some lazy blues track neither of you bothered to name. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, nursing a shared glass of whiskey.

The flirting’s been relentless tonight—smirks passed over Chinese takeout, hands brushing as you reached for the same remote, the unspoken weight of “what if” thick in the air.

You catch him watching you again, this time too lazy to hide it. “You still thinking about the eyes thing?” you tease, swirling the ice in your glass.

House lifts a brow. “I’m thinking you weaponize those eyes like you’re trying to get a felony charge.”

You laugh softly, leaning your cheek on your fist. “I could teach you how to do it. Might be useful.”

He shifts closer on the couch, one leg bumping yours. “What, so I can seduce Foreman next time he pisses me off?”

“So you can seduce me if you ever grow the balls,”you fire back, tone playful, but your pulse jumps the second the words are out.

He smirks—but there’s something sharper beneath it now. “Alright then,” he murmurs, turning on the couch to face you fully. “Show me.”

You blink. “Show you…?”

“How to do the look. The doe eyes.” His voice is low, already amused.

You grin, sitting up straighter. “Fine.” You adjust your posture, tilt your chin just a little, lashes fluttering up as you widen your eyes at him. Soft. Innocent. Dangerous.

His breath hitches. “Jesus,” he mutters again, leaning back. “Okay..”

“Your turn.”

He gives you a look. “I’m a grown man with a cane and a Vicodin addiction, not a Disney princess.” But he tries. He mirrors your posture—sort of. Tilts his chin. Widens his eyes. Blinks once, slow and exaggerated. “Like this?” he deadpans.

You snort at first. “You look like you’re trying to scam me out of rent money.”

“Okay, okay, wait,” he says, adjusting again. This time, he drops the sarcasm. Lets his gaze soften. Blue eyes half-lidded. Lips slightly parted. Quiet, attentive. Like he’s listening to you breathe. And goddamn. Your stomach flips. You feel heat crawl up your neck, something tight behind your ribs as you stare. He leans closer, elbow draped on the back of the couch now, voice brushing the shell of your ear. “Say it,” he whispers.

“Say what?”

“That I win.”