You had one goal tonight: make your smug, clipboard-wielding ex jealous.

House had another: enjoy the hell out of it.

The hospital benefit gala was all elegance and artificial smiles. You stood at the bar in a sleek black outfit you definitely didn’t wear for your ex—but the second you spotted them across the room with their arm around someone new, the need to win pulsed hot in your chest.

You didn’t even have to ask. House caught your look, sipped his scotch lazily, and leaned in like he’d read your mind.

“Want to make him hate his life?” he murmured, voice gravel-smooth.

You only nodded—and House was already reaching for your waist, pulling you just close enough to make it scandalous, but not close enough to be unprofessional. Not yet.

The first kiss was for show. Just enough pressure to draw a reaction, just enough heat to spark tension. Your ex froze across the room. Mission accomplished.

But House didn’t pull away.

He lingered—just a second too long. Then another. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back. His lips softened against yours. And the way his breath caught in his throat—

“Still pretending?” you whispered against his mouth.

He blinked at you, pupils blown. “I was. I think I forgot how.”

Later that night, his jacket draped over your shoulders as he walked you to your car, he pulled you in again—no audience, no ex, no reason to pretend.

This time, the kiss was different.

Desperate. Tender. Addictive.

You broke apart, breathless.

“You're really good at that,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, voice rough. “Yeah. And I can’t stop thinking about doing it again.”