A/N: Surprise! Upon realization that today is the anniversary of Bombshells (sobs sobs), I've decided to post this story a couple of days early. But be forewarned, I'll only be posting about one chapter a week. Expect it to be about eleven chapters total.

What you need to know: This is set in season 4, so technically it's considered an AU. Established team of Foreman, Taub, Thirteen and Kutner. Wilson is dating Amber, and Chase and Cameron are dating as well.

A big shout out to my precious little angel (aka, beta), Flynn! She puts up with my ramblings at 2 am and I am forever grateful to her!

Disclaimer:I am in no way affiliated with David Shore & Co.

I really hope you guys enjoy this story! I've basically poured my heart and soul into this.

Lisa Cuddy stared blankly ahead, taking a generous sip of her chai tea latte-an indulgence that only made her feel a tad guilty—as she weighed the options in front of her. She leaned forward slightly, catching a glimpse of herself in the small mirror that was conveniently placed in the corner of the display.

Her eyes widened when she noticed that the concealer she had put on her neck not four hours ago had wiped off, and the hickey that had been left on her neck last night was slowly becoming visible.

She cursed him inwardly as she shook her head, ashamed at the fact that she was slightly amused by her current situation; she hadn't had a hickey since high school. She dug through her purse, searching for the concealer that she had luckily placed in there at the last minute this morning. She rolled her eyes when she read the label.

Long lasting coverage my ass.

She turned her attention back to the display in front of her. There must have been a hundred lipsticks to choose from.

Her sister Julia had somehow convinced her to spend her lunch hour shopping for makeup that she would most likely never use; she was a creature of habit, and her makeup routine hadn't changed since her mid twenties. But she had agreed, mainly because she hadn't seen her sister in a while, but also because deep down, she knew she would get in even more trouble by staying at the hospital—and her lunch certainly wouldn't have gotten eaten.

A flash of red caught her eye and she paused, standing up straight as she reached for the lipstick. She popped open the cap, carefully placing it in its rightful place—there was no way she was going to buy a color this red. Red lipstick was like red nail polish—it was good in theory, but was only practical if you were in one of two situations: a hooker or a pre-teen girl rummaging through her mother's vanity without permission.

Lisa Cuddy was neither.

But before she could stop herself, the unceremoniously red color was being delicately slathered across her lips, and she pursed them for good measure as she stole another glance in the mirror.

Her eyes darted to the half-exposed hickey on her neck, and then to her lips, and then to her half empty chai-tea latte. She took one last, long, draining, sip, and sighed contently as the gingerbread-tasting liquid burned down her throat.

She picked up the lipstick and twisted it up and down, watching as the flash of red would appear and then suddenly disappear. And for once, she wasn't thinking about the budget report that she had waiting on her desk, or the proposal for additional funding to the clinic that was due in a week.

She was thinking about how good this lipstick was going to look smeared across the face of Gregory House in a couple of hours.

Cuddy put the cap back on, smiling to herself as she took the lipstick in her hand. Indulgence didn't necessarily mean sinful, and even if it did, it's not as if she were one for morality anyway.

Besides, some rules were just begging to be broken.

"Who is that for?" asked Julia in a surprised tone, pulling Cuddy out of her thoughts. "You don't usually wear red. In fact, every time I wear it you tell me I look like a hooker."

Cuddy smiled sheepishly, shaking her head in a nonchalant fashion.

"Just trying something new."

And it wasn't a lie, exactly. Because she was trying something new—it just wasn't a shade of lipstick. It was a casual affair with one of her employees.

Two Weeks Ago

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she slipped her dress back on, his eyes widening and his breath hitching as she expertly reached behind her back and clasped her bra. He thought he was going to lose his mind when she ran a hand through her hair, fluffing it yet somehow simultaneously taming her curls.

He was sure there was a ridiculous grin plastered to his face, but he didn't care. Caring had gone out the window the minute he'd reached up underneath her dress and she hadn't stopped him.

It was a funny thing really. The situation they'd found themselves in.

They'd somehow wound up in the same bar not three hours ago—she was recovering from one of the worst first dates imaginable, he was simply keeping up with his routine of drowning himself in scotch and misery.

By the time he found her, she was already two martinis deep. One more martini and several scotches later, they were horizontal in the backseat of her SUV, her windows completely fogged and her mind completely gone.

Not that either one of them were complaining.

The shrieking orgasm she'd experienced in the backseat of her car had somehow sobered her up, and before she could even think about changing her mind, she'd driven them back to his place.

Where they had sex—repeatedly. They'd barely made it through the door before he was shoving his hands all over her body. Underneath her dress, up and down her thighs, cupping her ass—there wasn't an inch on her body that had gone untouched.

And now he sat on his bed, his legs sprawled out in front of him, her back to him as she dressed.

He watched as she paused once her dress was back on, and he smirked to himself, because he could practically see the wheels that were turning inside of her head. And then she turned, smiling at him as she shrugged her shoulders.

"We should do this again."

He furrowed his brow.

"Have sex?" He paused and she gave him an incredulous look. "Okay, but you might have to give me a minute."

She got up, not caring that her dress was only halfway zipped, and she sat down next to him, her hair falling slightly in her face.

"No, " she said, tilting her head to the side and slightly scrunching up her nose. "I mean go out. Together."

"Like a date? You do realize who you're talking to, right?"

She shot him a wicked glare as she noted the slight hint of panic in his voice.

"Not a date, per se," She scooted closer to him, her eyes falling to his lips. "In fact, we don't even have to go out at all," she said in a hushed whisper.

He tilted his head closer towards hers, his hand encircling the back of her waist as he caught her lips in his. Her hand fell to his bare chest as she let out a slight moan.

"Then what would you call it, per se?" he asked, pulling his lips away from hers.

She hovered over him, letting her palms lay flat on the bed sheet beneath him. She leaned her head down once again, nudging his nose as she lightly kissed him once more. His hand began to slowly unzip her dress, and she closed her eyes, because she knew there was no way in hell she was leaving any time soon.

Cuddy took a deep breath, sighing in content as she felt her dress being pushed down her arms. She finally found the strength to answer, and through shuddered and hollow breaths said:

"Two people who've known each other for too long to bother with all of that dating crap."

He pressed a kiss to her clavicle, and she moaned once more as she collapsed on top of him. She ran her fingers down his chest, wrapping her leg around his waist as she allowed him to flip on top of her.

"But we'd get to have sex?"

He buried his face into her shoulder, nibbling at her neck. One hand tore through his hair as the nails of her other dug into his shoulder.

"That's kind of the whole point."

He paused and pulled his lips away from her neck, loosening the grip he had on her. "You think that could work?"

She bit down on her bottom lip, contemplating his question. After a few moments, she decided she didn't have an answer.

"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her chest up against his. "But can you honestly tell me you don't want to do that again?"

He smirked down at her.

"Good point."

Present Day

"Could be an infection," said Thirteen.

Foreman shook his head. "Doesn't explain all the symptoms. Besides, the white count isn't nearly high enough to suggest an infection. There are growths all over this guy's brain and he has a history of cancer. Cancer is our best bet. We should treat with chemo."

House sat at the table, twirling a pencil in his hand while simultaneously sucking on a bright red lollipop as he listened to his team debate.

"Two different cancers in the span of three years?" asked Taub, scoffing at the thought. "That's unlikely. And if Thirteen is right and we blast the patient with radiation, we'll destroy his immune system. He won't be able to handle the antibiotics."

"And if we treat with antibiotics and Foreman is right, the tumors could metastasize to another part of his body. His lungs, liver, heart—basically any vital organ will be put at risk."

House rolled his eyes.

"So we're all in agreement that not one of you is confident in your diagnosis?"

Thirteen leaned forward, folding her arms across her chest and giving House a pointed look. "Foreman is right, the white cell count is abnormally low for an infection, but the count is all relative. The patient underwent chemo for bone cancer two years ago, and he had a bone marrow transplant, both of which can cause a depletion in white blood cell count."

House nodded, following her logic.

"So you're saying it's a low count for any other patient, but it's high for him because of a treatment he had done over two years ago?" asked Taub, his words laced with skepticism.

"Well aren't you a Negative Nancy this morning?" said House. Taub closed his eyes and stiffened his back as House continued. He removed the lollipop from his mouth and pointed it at Foreman, a mocking look on his "First you shoot down Foreman's idea in support of Thirteen, and now you shoot down Thirteen's theory in support of—who are you supporting exactly? Your own? Because if you had an idea, I certainly missed it."

"All I'm saying is that there are obvious holes that need to be addressed—"

"Thirteen is right," said Kutner, interrupting Taub, who shot him a glare. House perked up, waiting for him to continue. "What if the chemo cells were lying dormant in his system? It explains the symptoms that infection wouldn't necessarily account for."

"Like his hair falling out," finished Thirteen. "His body could be subjecting itself to left over blasts of radiation, which is making his illness seem ten times worse than it actually is."

"And if it was cancer," began Kutner, "then the chemo should be treating the growths and they would be reducing in size."

Foreman scoffed.

"You do realize that chemo isn't one hundred percent affective one hundred percent of the time? The fact that the growths haven't gone down in size doesn't solidify your crazy theory of long forgotten chemo cells."

"So chemo, but no cancer," mused House. "I like it."

"Of course you do," said Foreman.

"We need to biopsy one of the growths in order to prove infection," said Thirteen. "Running labs will take too long."

"No way," said Foreman.

House rolled his eyes, his lips curving into a mocking smile. Taub and Kutner closed their eyes and simultaneously leaned back in their chairs, rubbing their foreheads slightly. They immediately straightened when Thirteen shot them a wary look.

"Okay, now you get the title of Negative Nancy. And you'll notice how I didn't bother to take either one of your genders into consideration when dishing out the nicknames," said House, taking the lollipop from his mouth and pointing it back and forth from Foreman to Taub. "I'm progressive that way. Insults shouldn't be gender specific."

"The growths are way too close to his limbic system, a biopsy would be too dangerous. You're putting the stability of his entire mental state at risk on the idea that radiation has been pumping through this guy's blood stream for the past two years. It's insane!"

"So we biopsy the growth and we might alter his mental status, or we simply treat with antibiotics and hope that we're right and that's it's not cancer, or Foreman is right and it actually is cancer and we've done all this for nothing," said Taub, clearly disgruntled with the case.

House simply shrugged and returned his lollipop to his mouth.

Kutner paused, tilting his head to the side. "Impaired mental state is better than no mental state at all," he said nonchalantly.

"The biopsy is our best bet," said Thirteen. Foreman scoffed and leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes.

"Don't worry," began House mockingly, "you guys sit here, relax. I'll go talk to the boss lady."

"It's a waste of time," said Foreman, shaking his head for what seemed like the millionth time in the last ten minutes. "She's never going to go for it!"

House gave him a knowing look.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what Cuddy goes for these days." He gave his team a dramatic wink, which only caused them to roll their eyes. "Prep the patient for the biopsy."

"So let me get this straight," said Cuddy dryly as she stared into the mirror in her bathroom. She was in the middle of applying her new lipstick when House had barged into her office unannounced. "You want to do a risky brain surgery on a patient because you think it's an infection, not cancer, even though the white cell count is normal, not to mention the fact that he has a history of cancer."

House sat in the chair across from her desk, twirling his cane in his two hands. She lifted an eyebrow, eyeing him suspiciously through the reflection of the mirror.

"The bone cancer is the reason we think it's an infection," he said, rolling his eyes. "Is it really necessary for me to explain this to you again?"

He let the edge of his cane fall to the floor in a somewhat angry fashion, and she lifted a hand to her chest and tossed her hair over her shoulder, feigning fright.

"If you want permission to do the biopsy, then yes, I'd say it's a good idea that I'm at least able to pretend to go along with your rationalization."

She turned so she was facing him, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned her hips against the cold, porcelain sink behind her. She licked her lips devilishly, crossing her ankles.

He shuddered a breath and tried not to let his mouth hang open—she smiled when he was unsuccessful. House got up and limped towards her, a dangerous look in his eyes. He must have noticed the new lipstick she was wearing. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting to the ground in front of her.

Suddenly the tile on her bathroom floor was just so damn fascinating.

"Chemo has been running through this guy's bloodstream undetected for almost two years," he said, entering her bathroom and shutting the door behind him. "That's what caused his white cell count to permanently drop to such a dangerously low level."

She braced herself when she heard the click of the door locking.

His hands fell to the side of the sink, pinning her beneath him. Her breath hitched as his hands grazed over her fingers. "So you think that the count is low for someone like you or me, but for him—"

He wedged between her legs and hoisted her up onto the sink, his hand moving to her thighs as he bunched her skin-tight black pencil skirt up, revealing just a hint of the laced panties she wore underneath.

She moaned as she closed her eyes, her head falling slightly back. He inched closer to her, his hand moving dangerously up her leg as he pressed the side of his head to her cheek, whispering into her ear:

"For him it would be considered high, which as you know—"

He shoved his hand into her underwear, and he swore he heard her mutter something along the lines of yousonofabitch. So he simply let his palm rest against her, applying pressure every so often.

She grinded against him slightly, practically begging him to do something with that goddamn hand of his, and he smirked, because there was nothing better than watching her squirm underneath him.

"Suggests…"—he dipped two of his fingers into her and she let out a slight cry, her head falling to his shoulder. She made sure to bite down as hard as she could before lifting her head back up. "Infection," she finished.

He nodded at her, but he didn't quicken his pace. He moved his mouth from the side of her head to her lips, catching her off guard in a kiss. She bit down on his lower lip, lingering before saying, "The growths are too close too the limbic system."

She pulled her lips away and arched her back, angling herself towards him as he flicked her center. "You're endangering the patient's mental stability."

He plunged one more finger into her.

"An altered mental state is better than no mental state at all."

And she groaned, because she was too busy thinking about her own mental state to concern herself with the possibility of damage to anyone else's. And she cursed him inwardly, because this wasn't the first time this had happened at work, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

She caught his lips in his and parted them slowly, finally allowing him entrance to more than just one part of her body. But she had to pull away so quickly that it almost scared her, because suddenly his pace had quickened, and his hand was rubbing in and up and all around her with a force so passionate and strong she was sure she was going to pass out.

Her head lolled to his neck and her legs tightened around his waist, her heel digging into his back so hard that she saw a slight wince in his eye—but that seemed to only encourage him. He watched her writhe against him, her lips parted and pressed up against his cheek.

And this time there was no mistaking when she whispered, "You son of a bitch."

Eventually his rhythm slowed and her breaths evened out, and she sat there, panting on the sink as she tried to regain some control over her body. She smirked when she noticed the streak of lipstick across his face.

She licked the inside of her thumb and wiped it against his cheek, gently removing the red stain.

"What do you say boss? Am I in the clear?"

She paused, furrowing her brow as her eyes darted to the zipper of his pants. She moved her hand from his cheek, letting it run down his body. He tilted his head to the side, grinning at her as she hooked her leg behind him once more and pulled him back towards her.

"I don't know," she whispered.

Her hand moved to the buckle of his pants, but her eyes never left his. She undid the buckle before he even had a chance to respond, her hands running underneath the edge of his shirt. She paused as one began to travel downward.

Zip.

"A little more convincing never hurt anyone, did it?"

He smirked. It most certainly did not hurt.

"You're holding scans," said Wilson, catching up to House as he hobbled down the hallway outside of his office.

House paused for a moment, turning towards Wilson as their steps fell in line. Wilson narrowed his eyes, a skeptical look on his face.

House stared back blankly before continuing his trek down the hallway.

"I'm also a cripple," he said, causing Wilson to roll his eyes. "Sorry, I thought we were stating the obvious. Gotta go," he began, shaking the scans in Wilson's face. "Patient."

"Your patient has cancer, House."

House paused, lifting his hand to his mouth as in a shocked manner. "Wow, if only I had thought of that! Thank you so much , I don't know what I would do without you."

"You're going to kill your patient, House."

House shook his head. "You're an oncologist, you seeing cancer is like seeing the sun rise—it happens every morning, and yet, somehow it never fails to annoy me."

"And you're a specialist in infectious disease, of course you're going to see an infection!"

"Yeah," said House mockingly, tilting his head to the left and scrunching up his nose, "but I'm also kind of a genius, so—"

"Foreman showed me the scans earlier. It's brain cancer. The very idea that chemo has been lying dormant in this guy's system for over two years is so far out of the realm of possibility that even you have to be a little skeptical." Wilson paused, furrowing his brow. "How did you get Cuddy to sign off on this in the first place?"

House shrugged his shoulders, his voice falling a tad lower than normal.

"It took a little more convincing than usual."

"More than usual?"

House rolled his eyes and pressed the button to the elevator. He didn't have anywhere to go, but a trip to the morgue might be a preferable to convincing Wilson that she had just let him do the biopsy.

He had no idea how much it took to get her to say yes.

"You could say that."

The ping of the elevator alerted them to the fact that it had arrived, and House decided he might as well go watch the surgery. Cuddy would be pretty pissed if his patient died and he wasn't even there.

Wilson nodded before saying, "Good. She gives you too much leeway."

House got on the elevator, rolling his eyes as Wilson followed.

"You do realize I'm doing the biopsy, right?"

"Yes, but the fact that it took a little effort means something."

Meaning. He was getting really sick of that word. She hadn't brought it up, but sometimes when he couldn't sleep, or he had a more difficult case, the word would haunt his thoughts.

"You take advantage of her House, and you know it. She can't say no to you because she has this idea in her head that you're always right—"

"Which I am, in case you hadn't noticed," interrupted House.

Wilson scoffed, shaking his head and pointing his finger. "No, you're always eventually right. There is no timetable for eventually, so she does the only thing she thinks she can do—she trusts you."

"She trusts my medical opinion, she doesn't trust me."

Wilson frowned.

"Since when do you care about what she thinks of you as a person?"

House lifted his thumb to his mouth in a mocking manner, biting down on it with a sympathetic look on his face. "Since my heart grew three sizes last night."

"What did you do last night?" asked Wilson, changing the subject. "We were supposed to go bowling."

The elevator pinged and House took a few steps, planning on ignoring Wilson's question altogether. But then he thought better of it. He paused after getting off the elevator and lifted his cane, stopping the door from closing.

Wilson raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

"I had sex with Cuddy," he said, his voice never faltering. "That's why she's letting me do the biopsy. You see I do something for her, and by something I mean—"

Wilson didn't let him finish. He pressed the button that forced the door closed, cutting House off and chuckling at the preposterousness of House's statement.

House stood in the gallery, watching as Taub, Thirteen, and Kutner performed the biopsy. He assumed Foreman was off sulking in the DDX room.

He leaned his forearm up against the glass wall and pressed his forehead against it as he tapped his cane on the ground, thinking. But he wasn't thinking about the patient, not really. He was sure that it was an infection, it had to be an infection—he would worry about the specific one when the biopsy results came back.

He continued to tap his cane against the floor, and he gently hit his fist against the window and bit down on his bottom lip, because the steady rhythm reminded him of the familiar sound of her heels clicking when she walked.

He just couldn't get her off of his mind.

He was watching some stupid documentary on penguins the other night, and he thought about how she had a penguin calendar in her dorm room twenty years ago. He accidentally got a salad with his takeout, and he thought about how if she were here, the salad would have gotten eaten. He walked past the maternity ward yesterday, and he felt his heart drop slightly, because he wondered if it still hurt her to walk past it.

He shook his head as he tried to force the thoughts out of his mind and repeated the mantra it's just sex to himself, hoping that it would sink in.

The door opened and he breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that some type of distraction would take his mind off of her. He removed his head from his forearm and saw that Chase was walking through the door.

"This is insane," said Chase as he stood next to House. He peered into the glass, trying to get a better look—he was clearly interested in the case.

"Thanks for your input," muttered House. "Feel free to carry on with your day."

Chase rolled his eyes but he didn't move. House turned his head towards him, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Cameron send you up here to check on my mental status?" snapped House. "Does it bother you that she's more concerned about my well being than yours?"

Chase scoffed.

"Cameron has no idea that I'm here, and even if she did, she wouldn't care. Don't flatter yourself."

House continued to tap his cane against the floor, and he closed his eyes momentarily, because the color of Chase's scrubs reminded him of a shirt she had worn three days ago.

"Why are you here then? Jealous of tiny Taub down there? Don't worry," said House, turning towards Chase and giving him a mocking glare, "he doesn't have the accent you do."

"I'm not jealous of Taub," stated Chase pointedly. "It's an interesting case, that's all. Am I not allowed to be curious?"

House eyed him suspiciously.

"You're not curious, you're bored. That's what happens when you leave my team to become a lowly surgeon."

"I didn't leave your team," said Chase, tapping on the glass in a rhythm that seemed to echo the tapping of House's cane on the floor. "You fired me, remember?"

House nodded and muttered something inaudible. Chase let out a slight chuckle, shaking his head as he tapped on the glass once more.

"Your patient is having a seizure," he said.

House groaned and pressed on the intercom with his cane. "Did you get the piece for the biopsy?" he yelled into the intercom; there was no need to yell, he simply felt like it.

He was doing a lot of things he simply felt like doing lately.

Thirteen nodded.

"Good," said House. "Push benzodiazepine to stop the seizure and get out of this guy's brain."

He shut off the intercom and ran a hand through his hair, turning his head to say something to Chase, who had apparently already left the gallery.

He tried not to think about the fact that Cuddy might actually kill him because his patient had a seizure during a surgery that she was skeptical about in the first place, and instead tried to remember the shirt she had been wearing that morning. It was black, and he remembered that because it had matched her bra—which had matched her underwear. And he continued to tap his cane against the floor, pretending to think about possible infections when really he was thinking about her five-inch heels that he loved so much. The ones she was wearing today had a red sole on the bottom—he thought that meant they were expensive.

And he continued to think about her, because he decided that trying to get her off of his mind was pointless, and that the better course of action would be to think about the next time he was going to get her off.

Cuddy walked into House's office about a half an hour after the biopsy had been done. He'd heard her walking down the hallway, but he hadn't bothered to stop throwing the ball against the wall.

"I heard your patient had a seizure," she said, folding her arms across her chest as she loomed over him with an unimpressed glare across her face.

House nodded, but didn't say a word. He continued to throw his ball against the wall, his eyes darting from the white board and then to back to her.

"I never should have approved it," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I said it was a bad idea."

House smirked, catching the ball in his hand and permanently laying his eyes on her. "I seem to remember you saying something more along the lines of "Oh my god House, yes more."

She scoffed, shaking her head as an amused look came over her face.

"That's actually what I came here to talk about."

House got up from the floor and limped over towards her.

"Looking for an encore performance?" he asked, getting closer to her. "Wilson is gone for the day, we could do it in his office," he joked.

She held her hand out, stopping him from coming any closer to her.

"I think it's time we start keeping our work relationship separate from our…other relationship."

House eyed her suspiciously for the briefest of moments—that was the first time she had ever referred to what they were doing as any type of relationship.

"So no more lunch breaks in your office?" He winked dramatically at her and moved an inch or two closer, smiling when she didn't flinch away from him. "Granted lunch wasn't exactly what was getting eaten…"

"House, I'm serious. It's not a good idea, what if somebody catches us? Besides, I think we both know it's a little distracting."

"There is nothing little about our situation, Cuddy," he said, raising his eyebrows in mocked offense. She rolled her eyes, smiling as her eyes fell to the ground.

"Fine," he said, noting her sheepishness. "You're right, it's…distracting."

"Thank you," she answered sincerely, and in a moment of weakness, she let her hand brush across his. It took all the willpower he possessed not to pull her closer to him.

He nodded back at her, disappointed when she pulled her hand away. "It's for the best, anyway. I told Wilson we were sleeping together to get him off of my back. If he caught us he'd know I wasn't lying, which could tarnish my reputation as a grade-a badass."

Cuddy's eyes widened, her shoulders squared as she folded her arms across her chest.

"You did what?" she hissed.

"Relax," said House, shrugging her off. "It's not like he believed me. The best way to convince Wilson that something isn't going on between the two of us is to tell him that something most definitely is going on between the two of us."

"We agreed to keep this quiet," she said, rolling her eyes. She couldn't afford for this to get out—he wasn't the only one with a reputation threatening to be tarnished.

"No, you agreed to keep this quiet. I just went along with what you said so I could get back into your pants."

Cuddy scoffed.

"How nice," she said, giving him a pointed look. "How is your patient doing?"

"Avoiding the subject entirely," he pointed out, tilting his head to the left. "Nice aversion tactic."

She shook her head and turned to leave when he let out a slight chuckle and took hurried steps towards her. He grabbed her by the elbow, taking her slightly by surprise.

"Patient is fine. My team is running labs to narrow down what type of infection is causing his symptoms."

She opened her mouth to respond, smiling at him as his thumb gently ran across her elbow. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to be consumed by him for the briefest of moments.

His thumb was running over her elbow and gradually she was pulled into his arms, and suddenly she had never been more grateful for the fact that he kept the blinds to his office closed. His hand moved to her waist and before she could even think about stopping herself, her lips were pressed against his.

Her hand fell to his neck as she parted her lips slightly, a small moan eliciting from them. Her hand travelled down his neck, and once it reached his chest, she suddenly remembered where they were.

She gently pushed him away as she pulled her lips away from his.

"I see we're taking the "rules are meant to be broken" approach," he said, subtly pointing out the fact that she was the one who had initiated the kiss in the first place.

"Shut up," she said, giving him an evil glare and taking a few steps backwards.

"Get dinner with me tonight," he said, taking a chance and calling her bluff.

"We can't." Her shoulders dropped and he swore he heard a hint of apology laced underneath her words.

"Why not?"

She sighed at his assertiveness—mostly because she wasn't sure she had the strength to continue to keep him at arms length. Because letting him in was dangerous, but not letting him in was simply unimaginable.

But she pushed those thoughts out of her mind.

"Because that's not what this is," she said, pointing back and forth between the two of them. She had a mocking smile on her face, one that she had perfected ages ago, one that he couldn't possibly crack.

Unless he knew her better than she thought he did. Which, when she thought about it, was highly possible.

"Then what is this?" he asked

She paused, biting down on her lower lip. Her eyes met his, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to open the metaphorical blinds to their relationship.

But she refrained, deciding that evading his question altogether was the better solution to their seemingly unsolvable situation.

"You're not ready for me, House."

She straightened her back and tossed her hair to the side in a rather saucy manner, unknowingly causing House's jeans to constrict. The things she could do with her hair really were unfair.

"And if I was?" he asked, calling her bluff once again.

She gave him a sympathetic look and closed the gap between them, lifting her hand to his cheek. She patted it mockingly, saying:

"Then this wouldn't be nearly as much fun, now would it?"

She gave him a smile and turned on her heel, not letting him respond. And he watched her as she walked away, the both of them trying not to think about how much damage all of the fun they were having was going to cause.

I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that I listened to a lot of Taylor Swift and Maroon 5 when writing this story. Feedback is always appreciated.

-Alison