Gala

Neil Perry

After the last class of the day, you were on your way out of the classroom in the flock of other students. "Follow me," you suddenly heard a voice whisper in your ear. You looked around, trying to find the person behind the voice when a hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you out of the crowd. It was your boyfriend, Neil.

"Happy Valentines Day," he whispered in your ear before you continued dragging you away. "Where are we going?" You asked him.

"Well, since it's Valentines Day, I figured we should do something romantic," he answered. You were about to ask him for details when he let go of your wrist and started running off. "Follow me!" He shouted.

When you finally caught up to him, sweating and out of breath, you saw the reason he'd brought you there; he'd set up a picnic right next to the lake, just for the two of you.

Todd Anderson

You were about to go to bed when the envelope slipped under your door. Curiously, you picked it up, seeing your name on the front in nice handwriting with a small heart beside it.

Opening it and pulling out the paper inside, you saw he'd written something on it. The words were surrounded by small hearts in the margins. Upon further inspection, you saw he'd written you a poem about you and how much he loved you.

Charlie Dalton

You hadn't thought you were going to do anything with Charlie this Valentines, but you were proven wrong when he woke you up in the middle of the night. After putting on a jacket based on his advice, he took your hand and led you through the building.

When you asked him where you were going, he only smirked and said: "It's a surprise, darling. Wait and see." Eventually, you reached one of the spiral staircases, leading up to the roof. When you got to the top, you saw that Charlie had set up a nest of blankets there.

"Happy Valentines Day," he said as he placed a kiss on your cheek. You spent the rest of the night cuddled up with him and watching the stars.

Knox Overstreet

When you opened your the door to your room after the last class of the day, you had not expected what you saw. Knox had decorated your entire room with hearts, changed your bedding into pink sheets, teddy bears, chocolates and flowers in the basket he was holding.

"Will you be my Valentines?" Was written on a banner hanging over the window in your room.

He was about to start saying something when you threw your arms around him, pressing your lips against his. "Yes, I'll be your Valentine," you mumbled against his lips, and you felt him smile.

Gerard Pitts

During lunchtime, you were sitting with all your friends, chatting and laughing. Suddenly, you felt something in your lap. Checking with your hand, you felt something covered in wrapping paper and with a ribbon neatly tied around it.

Looking to your side, you saw Gerard there, smiling at you. Checking the card on the gift, you saw he'd written "Happy Valentines Day" on it with a heart.

When you looked back at him, he winked at you, causing you to smile even more. He truly was the best boyfriend ever.

Steven Meeks

"Spiral staircase. Midnight" was written on the note he passed you in class today. You spent the rest of the class with your mind on what he was planning instead of trigonometry. When the bell rang, you tried to reach him, but he was already lost among the crowd.

When it was finally the middle of the night, you snuck out of your room, tip-toeing carefully towards the spiral staircase. You saw him standing there, nervously waiting for you. His face immediately lit up when he saw you, and started running up the stairs before you could say a word.

Once you got to the top of the stairs, completely out of breath, he was there, holding out a pair of headphones to you. Without a word, you put them on, your ears instantly being filled with music. You realised they were connected to the radio that him and Pitts had been working on in secret.

Taking his hands in yours, you started swaying to the music, eventually ending up in a hug. It was now your favourite song.

Richard Cameron

A knock was heard on the door to your room when you were studying. Opening it, you saw your boyfriend standing there, one hand behind his back.

He asked to come in, and you let him, closing the door behind him. "What's up?" You asked, sitting down on your bed. You motioned for him to join you, which he did.

"Uh, Charlie told me it was Valentines Day today," he started. You had forgotten it as well until now. "And since we're... together, Charlie said I should do something for you." He brought out the hand from behind his back, revealing a small boquet of flowers.

"I picked them from around the lake," he said sheepishly, holding them out to you. You carefully took them, feeling a smile spreading on your face. "Thank you, dear." You replied, holding his hand. "Happy Valentines Day."

~•●°●•~

LUNCH, 12:21PM, WELTON PREPARTORY SCHOOL

when the bells rang for lunchtime at welton, the dining hall exploded with life—bustling with awkward new-years searching for new peers and academic scholars hunched over their tables reading textbooks while ungraciously shovelling their mouths with food. on one table sat seven senior boys, last years who were so close to freedom from welton preparatory school, if you could even call it freedom.

"come on, cameron! you can't miss a meeting!" neil groused, slouching forward over the lunch table as he shot daggers into the redhead across from him. he was irritated with cameron, who suddenly decided that being a stickler for the rules was more important than their autonomy to explore their passions in life. "and you called me the stiff," todd mumbled under his breath, not looking up from his notebook as he bit into a rather crunchy red apple. charlie, the boy to camerons left, nudged his shoulder against camerons. "goody two-shoes," charlie sighed dramatically, slinging his arm over camerons shoulder. "remind me again— when have we been caught?" he quizzed, staring at cameron with a snarky glint in his eye. just as cameron opened his mouth to reply, charlie cut him off. "oh, that's right! it's never happened."

knox slammed his hands down on the table, throwing his head back with a loud laugh. cameron, rather aggressively, shoved charlies arm off of his shoulder, seething with annoyance, and turned to face charlie. "so it's okay when loverboy over here," he jabbed his thumb in knox's direction, "doesn't attend our sacred meetings, but when i do it, i'm suddenly the antichrist." "that's different! i was chasing the love of my love while you're over here chasing good grades and conformity," knox replied, cheeks dusted with a blush at the mere thought of his love. at the mention of good grades, steven looked up from the radio he was working on, silently sliding it to gerard. "and don't forget sucking up mr. nolans behind," charlie added, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. neil leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest with a small smile on his face. "don't be harsh on him. it's not his fault he has to try hard to get good grades," steven quipped, folding his arms and resting them on the table, a smug smirk tugging on his lips. "just come and study at the meeting," gerard muttered, not lifting his gaze from the radio. his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he tweaked with the shared radio. cameron glanced over at gerard, before meeting neils gaze, whose eyebrows were raised, his face still sporting the same smile. "fine."

NIGHTFALL, 11:06PM, THE CAVE IN THE WOODS

night in the woods was always peaceful. the moonlight shimmered through the plantation, casting a low glow throughout the area. the trees swayed in rhythm with the howling wind, leaves fluttering onto the ground. you always thought it was comforting and found mother nature to be something so fascinating yet so beautiful. one of the great gifts from mother nature were the natural landscapes scattered throughout the world. mountains and cliffs, lakes and streams, but specifically karst landscapes; caves. they were the perfect getaway space, tucked away from the rest of the world; just like the one you were sat in now. you discovered the cave by mistake on one of your walks, when curiosity got the better of you when you spotted the woody terrain. you have now adopted the cave as your own hideaway, the perfect place to allow your body to relax.

the stresses of life got to you easily. sure, ridgeway high wasn't like welton or henley, where the expectations were through the roof, but the pressure from your parents never gave you peace of mind. it chipped away at any strand of self-assurance you had in your abilities. they never really saw you as their kid; you were more like a doll, made to do whatever its owner wanted you to do; it was suffocating to say the least. you only had a small friend group, but they didn't feel like real friends. they weren't the kind to ask you if you were feeling okay if you came to school in a bad mood, or cared to hear about any of your interests; apart from one friend, pamela, who you'd known since your childhood. you two were practically siblings, bickering over the small things, sharing clothing items, even arriving unannounced to each others homes, inviting yourselves in as if you'd live there.

right now, you were sat cross-legged at the bottom of the cave with your back against one of the cave walls. you were practically snuggled into the corner, the cool rock pressing up against your skin. the contrast between the cold rocky exterior and the warmth of your thick, woolly jacket was oddly soothing. your little bag sat next to you, which contained your flashlight and house keys. the wind gently whistled, a small breeze entering through the caves entrance. your journal sat in your lap, with words scribbled all over the page and little doodles decorating the pages border. you let out a small sigh, pen cap resting between your teeth as you flipped the page. the pen began to dance around on the paper as you loosely sketched a landscape; a landscape where there were snowy mountains looming over the forest, birds soaring amongst the trees and the sky was a pristine blue. you were deep in concentration, completely unaware of the ruckus happening in the surrounding area.

"be quiet! do you even know how to shut your mouth?" cameron hissed, whipping his head around so fast it was a shock that he didn't get whiplash, glaring at charlie and knox; well, mainly charlie, who was making animal sounds in the dead of night, using his hands and mouth to try to "speak to the forest." the group of boys trudged through the forest, the fog masking their figures, with hoods on their heads and books (and a radio in steven and gerards case) in their hands. neil led the way, striding the familiar route with passion and excitement. todd trailed just behind him, occasionally peeking back to watch the silent chaos unfold between cameron and charlie. they all rounded a large thicket, the cave mere seconds from their reach. charlie quickened his pace, surpassing neil as they finally arrived at the caves entrance. "you know, if you have such an issue with our values here, maybe you should crawl your way back up nolan's—woah," he paused mid-sentence as he took a step into the cave, his eyes shocked to see another figure already sitting there.

you snapped out of your concentrated state at the sound of another voice. you lifted your head, your lips parting and eyebrows creasing when your eyes landed on the sight of a boy—no, not just one boy, seven hooded boys— who were no younger than you. they were holding various books in their hands, and one by one, they removed their hoods. your eyes scanned between the lot of them, landing on a blonde haired boy with the bluest eyes, who looked vaguely familiar, then a redhead with glasses and freckles dusting his face; a taller boy with light brown hair that stood next to the redhead— "who are you?" another tall boy asked, breaking the silence. he brought his flashlight up and directed it at your face, the beam practically blinding you. lifting one of your hands up— the one that held your journal— to your eyes, you stood up, using the caves wall to push yourself upright. "did charlie put you up to this—", "charlie! this is the second time you've done this, i cannot believe—" the boys all talked over one another, collectively pinning the blame on the boy that stood at the very front, who was equally, if not, more confused than the others.

"uh—" you opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. leaning down slowly, you picked up your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, your eyes not leaving the group once. you couldn't blame yourself for feeling both startled and worried, seven boys versus one you; that just felt unfair. you were frozen, as still as a statue, not quite sure where to look. the breeze all of a sudden felt more chilly, causing goosebumps to creep their way to the surface of your skin. your instincts started kicking in as your gut screamed at your brain "get out of there now!"; you listened. "i'm—i'm just gonna, uh, go," you finally mumbled out, audible enough for the group to shut their mouths at the sound of your voice. then, without any further thought, your legs began to move, walking towards the exit with haste. your movements were so sudden that your bumped into someone’s shoulder— the boy who had warm chocolate hair and even warmer eyes— with quite a large amount of force that ended up causing his thick book to fall out of his grasp afterwards. that didn’t stop you though, your head tilted down as you pushed your way out of the cave, leaving the group absolutely dumbfounded.

you didn't know why you decided to bolt like a mouse scrambling away from a cat. the boys were probably harmless, using the cave the same way you did. regardless, your main focus at that moment to get inside your house and into the comfort of your own bed. you continued your walk back home, the cool wind blowing against your face caused it to radiate with heat. you didn't look back— not even after your run-in with the seven boys left behind more than you realised.

NIGHTFALL, 11:12PM, THE CAVE IN THE WOODS

“But, Neil, you are gonna freeze.”

“I am wearing two sweaters, besides, you are freezing already.”

“I'm sorry. Now you are gonna be cold and it's my fault.”

“Don't worry.” He kissed your forehead. “You have to be more careful next time, okay?” You nodded. “But I will give you my jacket one hundred times if you need it.”

Todd Anderson

The boy looked so cute sitting next to you with his red cheeks, sweet eyes and cute light brown hair. He was the only thing that was distracting you from the coldness. It wasn't winter yet, but it was windy in the woods, and inside the cave —where you were currently—.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly as the other boys started arguing about the snacks.

“Yeah…”

“Are you sure? You… look cold.”

“I am, but it's okay, I'm not freezing anyway.”

“But you could get sick.”

He sat closer, shaking a little bit. Even if he didn't want to admit it, it was still a little difficult to talk out loud sometimes. He took his jacket and put it on top of your body, covering your chest and hands, like a blanket.

“Todd, you are an angel, but I'm gonna feel bad if you get sick. Here.”

You sat even closer, touching his knee with your own. His body tensed a little, but when you put half of his jacket on him, he relaxed. The other poets didn't notice how both of you were looking at them like lost puppies, more worried about each other's health.

Charlie Dalton

“Come here. I'm gonna make you warm with my own body.”

“Charlie!” You exclaimed, covering your face. The boys laughed at your reaction.

“And I am the one with a dirty mind, huh?” He smirked. “C'mon, come here.”

You left your spot next to Meeks and walked towards him, rolling your eyes. Charlie extended his hands, like he was asking for a hug. He guided you to sit between his legs, on the ground, and embraced you from behind, like he was a bear imprisoning your body.

“You are squeezing me.”

“That's the point, dummy.”

In that position, it was easier for him to put his chin on top of your head. You complained, but you preferred that over than freezing to death.

At some point, when Neil was reading a poem from the book “Five Centuries of Verse”, a gust of wind snuck through the cave entrance, causing you to shiver. Charlie noticed, so he grabbed your hands between his and started to rub them together.

“Better?” He whispered.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Everything for you.”

Knox Overstreet

“You are not going outside like that.” He said.

At first, he sounded like your dad, so you thought that he was talking about the pyjama pants or maybe the shirt. Of course, it was confusing because you were just going to one of the dead poets society reunions, sneaking in the middle of the night.

“What?”

“Yes. You are not going outside without a jacket or at least a sweater. Come here.” None of the others gathered with you, so you followed him to his room, which was the closest. You couldn't be noisy or careless. That's why you were so anxious about being in the hallway. When you turned your gaze from your surroundings to his room, with the door open, you flinched. Suddenly, he showed a wide range of garment options on clothes hangers.

“You have my red cardigan, which is your favorite; my black jacket, this other green cardigan; Welton's sweater…”

“Isn't that my green cardigan? I thought I had lost it.”

“Well, maybe you forgot it in the study room and as the good boyfriend I am, I took care of it for you.”

“Sure…”

“So?”

“The red cardigan.”

Steven Meeks

He noticed that the long sleeve you were wearing wasn't enough. He sat next to you and took your hands gently.

“You should already know that the weather here is dense.” He whispered while the others laughed at one of Charlie's jokes.

“I was too lazy to return and grab a jacket.” You yawned.

“Have you been staying up late?” He asked with concern while taking off his jacket.

“Sometimes. I can't be a poet and a good student at the same time.”

You put on his jacket and the scarf he offered later. With his beanie and sweater, he looked cozy, but you still felt bad for stealing his clothes.

“I can help you with homework if you want.”

“I appreciate that, but it's okay.” Another yawn. “It's not about how many assignments I have, it's about the time. But I'm gonna be okay.”

“You deserve to rest too. The others will understand if you need to stay for a night or two.”

“And miss out on all of your incredible poems? Never.”

“Then come here.” He patted his shoulder. “You can rest and listen.”

“Fine…”

You snuggled against him, closing your eyes to rest. It wasn't long before you truly fell asleep. Meeks looked down at you with a cute smile. Your friends kept their voices down that night, avoiding to disturb you. You really needed that sleep, even if it was surrounded by rocks and dirt.

Gerard Pitts

“G?”

He turned around, almost colliding with Cameron. His vision was limited between the darkness of the woods, but still, your silhouette was something he would always recognize.

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry, can you please stay behind with me?”

“Yes! Do you need help?” He walked towards you with a flashlight.

“I just… I'm not as fast as all of you. I'm getting out of breath.”

“It's okay, don't worry. Let's wait for a second until you feel better.” He took your hand, trying to comfort you. Then he noticed how cold it was. “You are freezing.”

“I'm okay…”

“You are not!” He quickly put his jacket over your arms and shoulders. “Let's go, the cave would probably be warmer.” Pitts grabbed your hand again, this time, sliding it in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Thank you…” Your voice sounded quieter compared with the loud noises your friends were making a few steps away.

“I will always be here.”

You walked behind the group. Pitts never let you go until all of the poets arrived at the cave. He made sure you were comfortable and warm, even if that meant that he had to be cold for a little while.

Richard Cameron

Cameron knew you well, that's why he came out of his room with a small backpack. Charlie looked at him as if the ginger was crazy, thinking the bag would make him slower because all they needed were flashlights and a book or two.

When they gathered at the exit of the school, everything made sense.

“Cam, I'm freezing. Can I borrow your jacket?” You asked, rubbing your hands together.

“So I can freeze? You are crazy.” He rolled his eyes and opened the backpack.

You were about to complain about how mean he was with you sometimes, even if it was a joke. But he took out a jacket, a beanie, a scarf and a pair of gloves.

“It's not even that cold yet.” Knox said, looking around for snow, but there wasn't.

“Tell them that. They act like it's December or something.”

You put on the clothes, feeling a warm sensation filling up from head to toes.

“You are my savior.”

“Aham. I'm not gonna be your savior anymore if you keep forgetting to bring extra clothes.”

“But now I know that you would bring me some. Why's that?”

“Because we would be accused of murder if you died of coldness in the woods.”

“Nah, it's because you care about me.”

“I still don’t get it.” Charlie actually looked up at Meeks, who huffed.

”Charlie—you’re not even paying attention. It’s Agricola, Agriculturae, Agriculturae, Agriculturāum—“

”I give up!” Charlie collapses backward against the bed and you can’t help but chuckle.

”You’ll get the hang of it soon, Charlie.” Neil speaks up. Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door.

“I’ll get it.” Todd stood up from his bed, waiting for Meeks to hide the whiteboards, in case it was a teacher, before opening the door. On the other side, looming over him, stood Mr. Perry, with his signature frown. Neil immediately noticed him, tensing up.

”A word, Neil?” Mr. Perry spoke up. Neil stood up with a faint frown, that nobody but you seemed to notice. He walked over to the door and exited the dorm, with Mr. Perry closing the door right behind him.

Nobody spoke about what had happened, and you couldn’t help glance at Todd, who was staring back at you with a concerned expression.

You didn’t see Neil until well into dinner.

When the bell rang, all of you left the dorm and headed towards the main lunchroom, but Neil was nowhere to be seen in the dorm building’s halls. Even when all of you arrived in the lunchroom and grabbed your dinner trays, you couldn’t focus on Charlie’s bickering or Knox’s lovesick comments. The only thing on your mind was Neil, and where the hell he was.

You picked at your food, your mind so preoccupied that you didn’t notice Neil arrive and sit down next to you until you heard his voice.

”Hey guys, missed me?” Neil smiled, yet you noticed how it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You jumped a little, fork clinking against the tray. For half a second, relief flooded your chest, warm, dizzying, and stupidly intense.

“Wow,” Charlie said, leaning back. “We thought you got abducted by your father.”

Knox laughed a little too loud. “Or ran away to Broadway without telling us.”

“Tempting, but impossible.” Neil chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The Broadway part, not the ‘being abducted by my father’ part.”

You didn’t laugh. You just stared at him, eyebrows furrowing together before you could stop yourself. “Where were you?”

The whole table went silent. Suddenly Charlie became very interested in his plate, and Meeks and Pitts stopped talking about free radio. Neil hesitantly took a bite off his plate and spoke up without looking up.

”Just had to talk with my father.” He practically muttered.

You tilted your head. “Neil.” One word. That was all. But it landed heavily.

He finally met your eyes, and his smile faltered the slightest bit. Close enough that if you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss it. But you were looking. You had been looking all night.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Promise.”

Charlie opened his mouth, probably to say something sarcastic, but Todd shot him a look and he shut up, which was rare. Instead, Charlie started chatting again with Knox, and everyone seemed to drop the subject. Everyone except for you.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice as you whispered into his ear. “You don’t look fine.”

Neil exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost.

“You sound like my dad.” He said, too quick to process it.

Then immediately, regret flashed across his face the second he noticed what he had said.

Oh. There it was.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t push; you knew not to. Instead, you nudged his knee under the table, a quiet “I’m here” without making a whole scene.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Then eat. We’ll talk later.”

Neil’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. He nodded, grateful, and for the first time since he sat down, his smile looked a little more real.

“Yeah,” he said. “Later.”

Dinner went by as usual. You talked about what to do at the next society meeting, criticized Dr. Hager and Mr. McAllister, and even practiced your homework verses for Mr. Keating’s lesson. When the bell rang and everyone started to get up and take their trays back to the kitchen, Neil tried to get away, but you grabbed his arm before he could.

”You agreed to talk later.” You stop him from leaving with Todd, which earns you a groan.

”Where do you want to talk? We’re going to get killed if we’re caught sneaking out,” he protests.

”Which is why we’re not sneaking out. We’re staying inside the campus. There are no rules that prevent us from being outside our dorms until midnight.” You slightly pull on his arm. He looks up at the clock at the entrance of the lunchroom. It was 9:30 PM. Damn it.

“Okay okay—“ he grumbled. “Lead the way.”

You allow him to set down his tray on the kitchen window before pulling him out the side door, the group long forgotten behind. The cool night air hit both of you, and you couldn’t help but shiver. With a fierce determination to get the answers you so desperately needed, you dragged Neil to a secluded bench in the courtyard, the only light illuminating both of you was the one of the distant full moon.

”Seems like there’s a full moon today.” Neil comments as he sits down.

“Stop avoiding the elephant in the room.” You cut him off, standing up in front of him with your arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

He looked down, his feet kicking a pebble on the path, and your expression softened. You sigh and uncross your arms, sitting next to him and gently setting your hand on his shoulder.

”Come on Neil, you know you can talk to me. We’re all worried about you. I’m worried about you.” You speak up tenderly, rubbing his shoulder.

“My dad has my whole life planned already.” He pauses. “Medical school at Harvard for ten years and then a doctorate in whatever obscure thing he finds. He doesn’t even ask what I want to do!” He kicks another pebble harder.

You remain silent, bordering on speechless. The silence stretches.

”Not like he cares what I want anyways.” He mutters dejectedly.

“That’s not true—“ You start, but he interrupts you.

”Yes it is! It’s like—no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for him.” He lets out a choked sigh. “It never will.”

Neil is quiet for a long time. His jaw tightens, and you can feel the tension in his shoulder beneath your hand. He stares straight ahead at the path, eyes unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“My dad doesn’t listen,” he finally says. His voice is low, careful, like if he speaks too loudly everything might shatter. “He decides what I’m going to be before I even get a chance to figure it out myself.”

He lets out a humorless laugh and shakes his head. “He calls it concern. Says it’s for my future. But it feels like I’m suffocating.” His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants. “When I played Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’—on top of the stage—I felt alive. Something I haven’t felt in ages.”

Neil swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I keep wondering what I did wrong. Why can’t I just be what he wants?” His shoulders sag, exhaustion written all over him. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesn’t matter.”

The silence between you is so thick, someone could cut it with a knife. Seeing your lack of response, Neil sighs.

”Forget it. It’s stupid.” He stands up, but you stop him halfway through.

”Carpe Diem.” You finally speak up.

Neil pauses, expecting anything but you quoting Mr. Keating. “What?”

”Carpe Diem, dummy! Seize the day!” You stand up in front of him, and he stares at you in utter bewilderment.

He blinks twice, letting out a shocked chuckle. “You actually mean it.”

”Of course. Our time here is limited; who cares what the rest thinks?” You reach out both hands for him to take, but he hesitates.

”You think that I can just… choose?” He finally looks up at you and you smile, nodding.

“I’m being serious, Neil. You don’t have to live your life for anyone else.”

He blinks hard twice, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I thought you were just trying to make me feel better.”

You shake your head softly, voice steady. “No. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. You can do it. I know you can.”

His laugh is small, shaky, almost disbelieving. “And you… really mean that?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling gently. “Every word. Even if it scares the crap out of you.”

Neil exhales slowly, letting his shoulders relax for the first time in hours. His eyes meet yours, and he smiles, taking both of your hands and standing up.

”Carpe Diem then.” He nods with a wide smile. You yank him toward the grass, but your feet tangle and suddenly you’re both toppling, landing against the cool blades of grass. The world disappears under your laughter.

Both of you know that if anyone sees you outside, the trouble you’ll be in won’t be small, but under the stars and laying on the damp grass beside each other, you can’t bring yourselves to actually care.

With a faint smile, you look at him. “Carpe Diem, Neil Perry.”

And with an expression matching yours, he replies.

”Carpe Diem, dummy.”

Of course, Charlie wasn’t listening, he never did when it came to academic studies. He was too busy daydreaming or looking at you. In his eyes, you were the only thing he needed; and despite his focus, Meeks thought entirely the same thing.

“I love you.” Charlie mused with a lovesick expression.

You chuckled softly, “I love you too, but I really have to focus-”

“But why?” Dalton whined, cutting across you.

Meeks spoke up, “You could really benefit from this too Charlie. You’re not exactly Einstein.”

“I could be Einstein.”

“Oh, shut up.” You giggled.

Charlie smirked, taking it as an invitation, “Make me, pretty girl.”

Steven simply rolled his eyes, despite the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You looked back down at your textbook, trying to make sense of the math, leaning slightly into Meeks’ side.

Suddenly, a gentle graze of Charlie’s lips danced down your neck, “Charlie,” you sighed, “not now…”

“If not now, then when?” He mused intimately.

She shared a knowing look with Steven. In the end, tilting her head on Steven’s shoulder to give Charlie more access.

“That’s it..” he purred, “just let me love you.”

Meeks played with your hair as he kissed the top of your head, “Head up, sweetheart.” He instructed.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, wondering why. Before you could even think, his lips attached to the other side of your neck. Steven inhaled your scent as he kisses up your jawline, “Mm.. you wearing that perfume we got you?”

You nod sheepishly. Meeks hums appreciatively, his breathing a little laboured, “Smells good, baby.”

Closing the textbook, you decided to give into your boys with a blissful sigh. Charlie gently nibbled at your pulse point, causing you to let out a soft moan.

“What have we got here?” He grinned, his voice husky with desire, “Such pretty noises, from such a beautiful girl. Our girl.”

Dalton’s hand slid slowly up your thigh, as Meeks continued making out with your neck. Your breathing hitched slightly, “I’m going to fail this math test.” She whispered with need.

Charlie pressed a loving kiss to your lips, “Yeah well, who needs trig anyway?” You kiss him back feverishly, your hand resting firmly on the nape of his neck.

Meeks’ hands begin to wonder in synchronicity with Charlie’s. You reacted to every kiss, pinch, and rub with small gasps or whimpers.

“She’s so receptive, don’t you think?” Meeks huskily asks Charlie, feeling you up eagerly. Charlie’s fingers ghost over your shorts, and against your core, earning another needy whine from your lips.

Dalton kneeled in front of your chair, his hands eagerly kneading your thighs, “C’mon baby, I know you need it. I know you need us.” He practically growled. He had a primal look in his eye that drove you and Steven crazy.

She happily parted her legs for her boyfriend, letting Charlie pull down her lounge shorts. “No panties?” He wickedly smirked, “Naughty baby.” He began to slowly lap at your heat, causing you to moan loudly.

Meeks instantly turned your head to kiss you passionately, swallowing the sounds of your pleasure. “That’s a good girl,” He groans as his eyes flickered to Charlie between your legs. He began to palm himself over his sweatpants, “God, can’t get enough of you.”

Your hand found its way into Charlie’s hair, pulling him against you as you bucked your hips; causing him to groan and growl between your legs, “C’mon, darling.. let go.” He encouraged, massaging two fingers against your g-spot.

“Charlie,” you whimpered, “I’m so close.. fuck, so close!” You mewled, one hand gripping his hair and the other held Meeks’ hand.

Charlie lapped up your release with a satisfied grin, “Atta’ girl.”

Once remotely recovered, you kneeled in front of Meeks. He raised a brow, “What are you doing there, sweetheart?”

the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the apartment windows, casting warm shadows across the living room. neil was sprawled on the couch, sprawled comfortably with a book in his hands, but his attention was less on the words and more on you. you were laid against his chest, comfortable and almost dozing off, except you were too focused on his face.

your gaze lingered, soft and warm, and he realized you weren't just looking—you were admiring him. the brown of his doe eyes, his freckles and rosy cheeks, pretty lips. you traced every subtle shift of his expression like you were memorizing it, storing it in a little pouch into your brain. your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fiddled with the hem of his your sweater as though it was grounding you from grabbing his face roughly and kissing him senseless.

could anyone blame you? this was a totally normal reaction and way of thinking, of course.

neil’s heartbeat stuttered in response, realizing you had been staring longer than you thought. “my love…” he said lowly, voice teasing but loving, it felt coming home.

you blinked, caught, and immediately looked away, cheeks blooming a soft, impossible pink. your lips pressed into a small, embarrassed line, and you hid your face in the crook of his shoulder when he leaned in, just close enough to kiss your temple.

“i—uh… i wasn’t—just…” you stammered, voice trembling slightly. even after dating for so long, an anxious part of your brain hoped that he didn't find your staring weird.

neil laughed quietly, not mocking, just the low, romantic sound of someone utterly enchanted and in love. he set his book aside and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “i saw you,” he murmured. “you were… staring.”

your throat worked, words failing you entirely. you wanted to scold him, brush him off and claim you weren't, to regain control, but none of it came out. instead, you gave his neck a small kiss, soft and hesitant, and peered up at him afterwards, letting your hair fall over your flushed cheeks.

“you think I didn’t notice?” neil added with a grin, though his eyes were warm and tender. so beautiful.

you giggled nervously, you couldn't help but feel small under his piercing and warm gaze, a tad bit nervous. how could you have noticed? you were too busy staring at his pretty face to think about anything else. “i was just.. appreciating,” you mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but him.

“appreciating?” he repeated, amused. “yeah, you totally weren't so captivated by my eyes.”

your eyes couldn't help but roll your eyes at his teasing, playfully pinching his shoulder. “you’re ridiculous."

neil grinned, heart swelling. he loved moments like this with uou. "you love me,” he said, and you smiled. you do, so much.

in that cozy and warm moment, neither needed words. your loving gaze had said enough, and his eyes, filled with fondness and warmth, said the rest.

In the study group, you sat absently besides him. Pitts asked for your help in one of the chemistry exercises. Charlie was ready to ask for your help too, but as soon as you finished explaining to Pitts, you closed your chemistry book, took out your latin notebook, and asked Neil to swap seats. So, you ended up next to the red-haired boy that Charlie loved to tease.

Thirty minutes passed with Charlie maintaining his usual carefree attitude —though he occasionally glanced in your direction, not missing how Cameron leaned towards you as he patiently explained—. Then, he couldn't keep his smirk alive, nor did he continue making jokes. Knox and Neil noticed something was off when Charlie simply remained silent.

“Are you feeling good?” His best friend asked with a worried gaze.

“Yeah. Everything is good, apparently.” He couldn't help but look in your direction, catching how you were smiling at the ginger when you finally got the right answer in an exercise.

When everyone gathered their things, Charlie waited for you. You were about to say goodbye, when he faced you with a stiff posture and a contracted jaw.

“I'm coming with you.”

“Where?” You asked genuinely confused.

“To your room.”

“Why?” Charlie almost let his serious demeanor fall when he caught how you changed your expression: your sweet eyes filled with worry.

“We need to talk.”

The other poets just went to their rooms, knowing there was nothing to see. The walk to your destination was silent. Both of you were consumed by uncertainty for different reasons. Charlie wasn't sure if he really wanted to know the answer to the question in his mind, and you had no idea what was wrong.

Inside the bedroom, your boyfriend sighed, relieved because your roommate wasn't there. He locked the door. Nervous, you left your books on your desk. Charlie did the same. However, he didn't sit in your bed when you palmed the free spot next to you, because he was too anxious.

“What's wrong? Did I do something?”

His voice was filled with despair, you noticed it. The tilt in your head made him lose control. He grabbed his hair, tired of feeling like you were ignoring him. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes reflected how troubled he was.

“I don't understand.” The tone you used, soft and low, made him kneel in front of you, looking up.

“You have been ignoring me all day. You didn't laugh at my jokes. You almost never even looked in my direction. You didn't squeeze my hand when I held yours. And in the study session you were all smiley with Cameron.” His eyes softened with a tint of red color. “Please, tell me if I did something wrong. I can't… I can't stand another day without your attention."

He was in a vulnerable state. Charlie liked to be perceived as someone funny and carefree, but deep down he was a softie. And when he started dating you, he discovered a needy and cute romantic side he denied ever existed.

“Oh, baby.” Your hands landed on his cheeks and he closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling. “I'm so sorry.” You whispered and something in Charlie broke, fearing the worst. “I didn't realise I was neglecting you. I just have been so stressed over the next latin exam. I had a B last time and Cameron offered to help me. I think I kinda locked myself in by stress.”

Your lips kissed his nose and then his mouth. The motion was short, but it was a demonstration of how sorry you truly felt. After that, your arms wrapped around his neck. You pulled him closer, feeling Charlie wrap his hands around your waist as well. Still kneeling in front of you, he hid his face in the hollow between your neck and shoulder. Feeling him so close, you realized how much you'd missed his warmth all day. Both of you stayed like that for a while, until an adorable groan came from Charlie's throat. He moved away enough so he could speak without breaking the hug.

“You really scared me.”

“I know, Char.”

“You always know when I'm struggling with school, or parents or friends. I wanna know when you struggle too.” He whispered his answer, so close to your face, like he was afraid someone would hear.

“I'll let you know from now on. Again, I'm sorry.”

“An apology won't be enough to make me feel better." He gave you a little smile. There was your flirtatious, playful boy.

“Then what do you need, darling?”

“I want you to hold me and kiss me until you get sick of me. Or Neil comes searching for me worried. Or your roommate knocks at the door. Whatever happens first.”

“Trust me, the first one will never happen.” You squeezed his hand. “Come here.”

Charlie stood up so he could look down at you, meeting your eyes while he dried his. He reminded you how tall he was just by having him in that position. You climbed in your bed, making space for him. There, both of you lay down with arms and legs tangled. You caressed his hair and back, kissing his face and mouth carefully. He smiled wildly, happy because he was finally receiving the attention he knew he deserved from his significant other.

neil perry: this boy can practically sense when you’re in need of comfort. he picks up on the smallest of changes from the way you smile, the way you stand or walk, to the tone of your voice. he won’t push you to talk to him about it, as he wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but when you end up going to him with that look on your face, he pulls you to a secluded area, maybe somewhere outside on the field. neil lets you pour your heart out to him, and not once will he look away from you; even if your eyes are looking anywhere but him. his eyes are full with pure love and understanding, but if you’re rambling like crazy, neil will say your name and gently place his hand on your cheek, making you meet his gaze. he offers up his words of inspiration, wanting to uplift you in any way shape of form, and would also go out of his to make sure you know how amazing you are. he may also pull you into a hug if he feels you need it.

todd anderson: todd’s a very shy person, and i think that can sometimes show when he’s comforting you. i know he has a lot of character development and comes out of his shell, but i still feel like his way of comforting you is spending quality time with you. if he can tell you need some kind of comfort (he can sense it like neil) he’s walking you to a quiet area- whether that’s his shared dorm or some spot on a hill under a tree)- sitting himself down and pulling you down next to him. he lets you talk when you want to, so if you want to talk, he’ll listen intently, occasionally asking questions and making comments. if you’d rather not speak, it’s a comfortable silence; i can see todd being someone very big on physical touch (because he’s quite shy), so he probably pulls you close or lets you lay your head on his lap/shoulder while he writes a poem about you in his notebook.

steven meeks: it takes one look from steven for you to break down in front of him. whether you’re just crying waterfalls or just word vomiting your worries to him, he keeps his calm, letting you do what you need to do; steven knows that keeping stuff bottled up is not healthy, and he also knows that not crying when you’re upset just makes things worse. he grabs your shoulders and pulls you close, asking how long you’ve been keeping it in, if you need some water, etc.. i think he’d take your hand, tells you he has and idea, and takes you on a walk, making occasional conversation about your feelings. he’d make a quick stop to his dorm room before walking you to the rooftop. steven would then proceed to pull out his and pitts radio, fiddling with it before placing the headphones on your head. music drowns out your sadness (he knows that music therapy helps with comforting), and it doesn’t take long before steven starts doing a silly little dance, holding your hand and encouraging you to cut loose (footloose reference).

gerard pitts: oh my pittsie, he’s the absolute sweetest. he’s probably with steven when you approach him, and gerard would (lovingly) ditch him in 0.01 seconds to be by your side. he can be a teensy bit awkward at times, but that doesn’t stop him from absolutely pampering you. i think he would give you his sweater to wear or drapes his blazer over your shoulders while you pour your heart out to him, and would 100% bring you some kind of snack that he knows you like. i actually think gerard is good at comforting, and would tell you it’s valid to feel the way you feel, that it’s okay to be upset; but he will never let you talk badly about yourself, shutting you up in an instance the moment you try to say something bad about yourself. i can see you two lying on his bed or sitting on the floor of his dorm while he informs you of the silly boy shenanigans him and meeks have been up to in order to cheer you up.

charlie dalton: it’s 11:14pm, and there’s a knock at charlie’s dorm door. when he opens it in his half- asleep state to find you standing there, visibly upset, he doesn’t have time to ask anything as you immediately step into the dorm and throw yourself onto him. he’d carefully grab the sides of your face, eyes scanning your face to make sure you’re not harmed in any way. “woah—hey hey hey, what’s wrong?”, “it’s okay, you’re okay.” at that point, charlie’s concern is on you and does not care if he wakes up his roommate. i like to think that he knows how to deal with situations like this, so he might take you outside for some fresh cool air (not without giving you his jumper first to make sure you stay warm). even though charlie definitely cracks a couple of jokes and uses his humour to cheer you up, i think he is very insightful with his words and is probably very good at comforting people in general. from that point on, for the next week or so, he is practically glued to you, making sure you’re feeling okay and doing absolutely anything for you.

richard cameron: the moment you approach cameron to find a sense of comfort, he would usher you into his dorm room and immediately start to ask what or who is making you upset, how it is impacting you, how long you’ve felt like that, etc etc… he becomes a mini therapist and practically takes mental notes on everything. he can’t hide his concern for you and might be a teensy bit pushy (lovingly) if you’re struggling to get your words out. even though cameron might not be the best with words, i feel like he would comfort you by taking some of the stress off of your shoulders; basically acts of service, like for instance if you were worried about something like grades, he would want to help you with that: he may do your homework or give you notes. if he found out some of the students at welton were picking on you and giving you trouble, he might give them a piece of his mind or dob them in to mr nolan.

By the time the study session fizzled out around 6:30, their study session having devolved into Charlie making jokes about the headmaster’s eyebrows, Neil had convinced everyone to come hang out in his and Todd’s room. “Just for a bit,” he promised Cameron, who was already muttering about tomorrow’s Latin quiz. They spilled into the room in a tangle of books and laughter, Charlie immediately claiming Neil’s desk chair and Knox flopping dramatically onto Neil’s bed.

The door was slightly ajar, lamplight spilling into the hallway. Inside, Todd was on his own bed, cross-legged, leaning over his notebook, scribbling something in that small, neat handwriting of his. His pen moved quickly, his gaze fixed on the page, brow slightly furrowed in that way of his that meant he was concentrated.

He looked up at the noise, a quick, shy smile lighting up his face. “Hey,” he said, voice soft but warmer than it had been at the start of term. “Did I miss much?”

Neil grinned. “Not unless you count Cameron’s lecture on metaphor analysis. You’re safe.”

“Yeah, we didn’t even get through half of the poem before Pitts started complaining about hunger,” Cameron confirmed, rolling his eyes in that affectionately exhasperated way of his.

Todd ducked his head, brushing the back of his hand against his cheek in that unconscious way he did when he was embarrassed. “Right.”

That’s when Charlie’s gaze drifted toward Todd’s desk. Lying there, partially tucked under a folded Latin assignment, was an envelope: cream paper, handwriting that was definitely not Mrs. Anderson’s sharp, joyless script. And there was something about it—maybe the faint smudge of lipstick on the corner—that made his eyes gleam with the promise of chaos.

Charlie was next to the desk in an instant, snatching up the letter with the speed of a seasoned troublemaker. “Hey—” Todd’s voice shot up half an octave as he lunged for it, but Charlie was already holding it out of reach.

“Well, well, well,” Charlie drawled, turning it over in his hands. “What do we have here?”

“Charlie!” Todd’s face flushed so fast it was like someone had lit a match under his skin. He made another desperate grab, but Knox had already leaned over to get a look.

“Fancy stationery, Todd-boy. And is that perfume I smell?”

Todd’s ears flushed crimson. “Give it back.”

Pitts, catching the sight from where he leaned against the wall, let out a slow whistle. “Oh, this is interesting.”

Knox’s eyebrows shot up as he read over the first lines while Charlie showed him, and then he grinned like Christmas had come early. “Todd… is this from a girl?”

Neil blinked. “Wait, what?”

Cameron looked up from where he was setting down his books, frowning in confusion. Pitts and Meeks both turned to stare at Todd, eyes wide.

“Don’t tell me…” Charlie said, his voice rising in mock scandal. “Anderson’s been hiding a girlfriend from us?”

The room erupted.

“You—?!” “Since when?!” “You—Todd—you have a girlfriend?” Meeks blurted, sounding half delighted and half baffled.

“How?” Cameron asked flatly, brows raised. “No offense, Todd, but…”

Todd was still trying to grab the letter back, muttering something incoherent. Charlie danced away from him, reading the return address aloud before Todd tackled him in an uncharacteristic burst of boldness.

Knox snatched the letter in the hand-off, holding it above his head. “Gentlemen, this is not a drill—Todd Anderson has a girlfriend!”

Todd’s entire face was red now. “Yes.” He squeaked out. “Yes, I do. I have a girlfriend. Are you happy now?!?” He made another grab for the letter.

“Ecstatic,” Charlie said, handing the envelope to Steven while blocking Todd's path again.

Neil’s face lit up like Christmas morning. “Todd, that’s—Todd, that’s wonderful!”

“If you say so,” Todd hissed, clearly referring to the current situation, finally wrenching it back with his ears blazing as Neil openly chuckled.

“Yes!” they chorused, grinning like wolves.

“God, Anderson, this is—this is huge!” Charlie laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, peace—just let us see what’s got you all red-faced.”

Todd clutched the envelope to his chest for a moment, looking like he was deciding whether to bolt from the room entirely. But in the end, maybe some small part of him liked the pride curling under the embarrassment—because yeah, he had a girlfriend, and none of them did.

“Oh, admit it, Todd,” Knox said, flopping back onto Neil’s bed. “You’re smug as hell right now, and you should be.”

“Fine,” he huffed, trying to hide the proud smirk curling at the edges of his lips, handing it over to Neil. “But—don’t—just—ugh.”

Neil’s grin softened into something warm as he unfolded the letter. “This is adorable,” he said after only a few lines. “She’s telling him about a new Elvis record she bought…”

“A girl who likes Elvis? Keeper,” Charlie declared.

“…and how she’s learning to bake butter cookies and might send him some.”

“Oh, come on,” Cameron groaned good-naturedly. “Now I want a girlfriend who bakes cookies.”

Steven muttered in agreement, while Knox elbowed Cameron. “Bet you’re jealous, huh, Cam?”

Cameron crossed his arms, trying not to smile. “I’m not jealous. Just… cookies are nice, that’s all.”

Then Charlie spotted it—the faint lipstick mark at the bottom. His jaw dropped theatrically. “Is that—? It is! She kissed the paper!”

The room roared with laughter.

“God, she sounds so sweet,” Pitts said.

“She is,” Todd blurted out before he could stop himself.

Neil looked at him then, his smile crinkling his eyes. “I’m happy for you, Todd.”

“I’m happy for me, too.”

And that proud little smirk stayed on his face for the rest of the night, no matter how much Charlie teased or Knox recited your words in an overly high-pitched voice. Because for once, Todd Anderson felt like he was allowed to have something—someone—worth being proud of.

Once it became clear that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, he was stuck with the alternative option: paging you in hopes you could provide him some much needed, ahem, relief

(How you got into his office is entirely up to you. It's most likely he opened the door for you himself but if you want to imagine hopping over the divider between his and House's balconies for a more comical effect go for it)

He's so pathetic when you finally get a good look at him. He has an obvious bulge in his pants and looks even more like a kicked puppy than usual

Typically he's not one to ask for sexual favors at work, but it's clear an exception needs to be made before he combusts from all the pent up sexual frustration

He's torn between politely declining any help and begging for assistance until he sees you sink to the floor in front of him

At that point all the blood that was being used to form any sort of thought went rushing somewhere else if you know what I mean

Knowing Wilson he probably needed to be gagged (most likely with his own tie, as you didn't have anything else immediately on hand) so no one would hear his desperate moans while you sucked him off/gave him a handjob

Depending on how strong the aphrodisiac was would determine just how long you spent with him in his office. If it was weaker, then thirty minutes to an hour would suffice. Anything stronger than that and the two of you wouldn't be seen for the rest of the day

If you were to ask him about it afterwards, he'd admit it was a lot more enjoyable than he thought it would be given the fact you were both at work during the day

Still, he'd prefer if the next time he took an aphrodisiac it was in a less public area with him having knowledge of it beforehand

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Chapter 1: The Favour

You stand in front of Dr. Cuddy’s office like a kid about to ask their mom for fifty bucks. Except this is worse. She’s your boss, she’s terrifying, and technically, you have no good reason to be here.

Knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice is brisk, no-nonsense, which is exactly the opposite of your own mood. You shuffle inside, clutching your folder like a shield, and plaster on your best I’m-an-eager-medical-professional-who-definitely-has-no-ulterior-motives smile.

“Dr. Cuddy,” you begin, a little breathless. “I wanted to ask about the upcoming oncology conference in Virginia. I know it’s not exactly in my schedule, but—”

Her eyes flick up from the papers on her desk, sharp and assessing. “Usually I have to twist arms to make people go to those things. Why are you volunteering?”

Panic hits like a syringe of epinephrine. You fumble. “Well, it’s… it’s an exceptional opportunity, you know? Cutting-edge research, brilliant minds gathered in one place, a chance to expand my knowledge, network, collaborate…”

You’re rambling. You sound like a walking medical brochure.

Cuddy narrows her eyes. “Uh-huh. And what’s the real reason?”

Your throat closes up. You can’t exactly blurt out I’ve had a ridiculous crush on Dr. James Wilson since the first day I stepped into this hospital and the man wore a tie so shiny I nearly coded on the spot. Nope. Not happening.

So you grab the next excuse that flutters across your brain like a doomed moth. “It’s… House,” you blurt.

That gets her attention. Her brows dart up. “House?”

“Yes,” you say quickly, leaning in as if confessing a terrible crime. “Please don’t tell anyone, Dr. Cuddy, but… I think he’s hitting on me.”

The room goes very, very still.

Cuddy’s expression shifts from skepticism to intrigue, and then to outright amusement. “House. Hitting on you.”

You nod solemnly. “Yes. He’s been… weird. Paying too much attention, making me do extra work, saying disgusting things—well, more disgusting than usual—and… he’s even asked me out. Several times.”

Her lips twitch, and then she lets out a chuckle of disbelief. “That doesn’t sound like the usual House. Annoying, sure. Inappropriate, absolutely. But asking you out? That’s new.”

You press on, earnest and desperate. “Exactly! Please, I just—if I go to this conference, maybe he’ll focus on someone else for a few days, and I’ll finally get a break from… all of this.” You wave vaguely, encompassing the chaos that is House’s existence.

Cuddy leans back in her chair, scanning you in that unnerving way she has, like she’s got an MRI machine hidden in her eyeballs. She doesn’t look convinced. Not completely.

But after a long pause, she sighs. “Fine. I’ll write you a letter. You’ll need that to get access. But you do all the booking yourself, and don’t you dare dump any extra paperwork on me.”

Your heart leaps. “Thank you, Dr. Cuddy!” You’re halfway to bouncing on your toes. “Seriously, thank you so much.”

You all but bolt from her office, giddy, relief buzzing through you like caffeine. Behind you, Cuddy shakes her head slowly, watching you go with narrowed eyes, a suspicious smile tugging at her mouth.

Yeah. She’s not buying it.

But she’s letting you go.

And that’s all that matters.

Chapter 2: Lunchtime Intrusion

The cafeteria smells faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant, which is, honestly, par for the course. You balance your tray with the focus of a tightrope walker—salad, soup, a roll, a bottle of water—and scan the room for an empty table.

That’s when you spot him.

Dr. James Wilson. Sitting by himself. A rare sight, like a double rainbow or a properly filled-out clinic chart. His tie today is burgundy, a little crooked, his sleeves rolled up, and he looks… relaxed.

And then—oh god—he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

He smiles. Warm, welcoming, a little crinkly at the corners. And before your heart can hammer its way straight out of your chest, he tilts his head and gestures toward the empty seat across from him.

You nearly drop your tray.

Somehow, though, you manage to walk over without tripping and slide into the chair, trying desperately to look casual, like this is no big deal, like you don’t have mental monologues about this exact scenario while brushing your teeth.

“Hey,” Wilson says, easy and polite, “good timing. I was starting to think I’d have to eat alone for once.”

“Yeah,” you reply, spearing a cucumber with more intensity than is strictly necessary. “Rare sight. You’re usually… occupied.” (By House, you don’t add, though it hangs unsaid between you.)

He chuckles. “Occupied, yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

The conversation flows surprisingly smoothly. Work, mutual cases, some small talk about cafeteria food quality (or lack thereof). You nibble your salad, sneak glances at him, and feel like the universe is finally—finally—throwing you a bone.

At one point, you mention the upcoming conference, just casually slipping it into the chat.

Wilson blinks, surprised. “Wait—you’re going too?”

You widen your eyes in faux surprise, the acting chops you didn’t know you had coming in strong. “Oh, really? You are? What a coincidence!”

He smiles. “Yeah. It’s a good one, actually. Not all fluff. I’ve gone a couple of times before.”

“Nice,” you say, stabbing another cucumber. “Should be interesting.”

He nods, then tilts his head. “Have you booked a hotel yet?”

You shake your head, playing it cool even though your pulse is tap-dancing. “Not yet. Haven’t found a good one.”

Wilson leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Stay at the Riverton. That’s where I’ll be. It’s close to the convention center, and the rooms are decent. Trust me, half the other places look like they haven’t updated since the 70s.”

“Oh.” You try to keep your tone casual, but your cheeks give you away, heating at the thought of staying in the same hotel as Wilson. “Yeah, sure. Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

He gives you another smile, warm enough to melt the butter on your untouched roll. You’re lost in your thoughts—mentally redecorating your future Riverton hotel room with stolen towels and Wilson’s tie—when the atmosphere around you shifts.

“Wow.”

The voice slices through the cozy bubble like a scalpel.

You look up to see House looming, tray in hand, expression equal parts disdain and suspicion. His cane thunks once against the floor as he eyes the scene.

“Well,” House drawls, “isn’t this adorable? Wilson and his little oncology protégé playing cafeteria buddies. Did I miss the raffle?”

You stiffen. Wilson sighs.

“House,” Wilson says firmly, “I can’t have lunch with a colleague without you making it weird?”

“Colleague,” House echoes, dragging out the word. His gaze flicks to you, sharp, sly. “Mm. Sure.”

There’s an edge in his tone, subtle but unmistakable. And when your eyes meet his, your stomach plummets. Because oh god. Oh god. He knows.

Heat floods your face.

Before House can open his mouth again and deliver a killing blow disguised as sarcasm, you blurt, “Dr. House. Can I—uh—talk to you for a second? Outside?”

Wilson’s eyebrows knit together in suspicion. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you squeak, already halfway out of your chair. “Just… work stuff.”

House smirks, positively basking in your discomfort, and gives Wilson a mock-innocent shrug. “Doctor-y things. You know how it is.”

You want to crawl into your soup. Instead, you scurry toward the exit, and House limps after you, his cane clicking smugly against the linoleum.

Once you’re out of earshot, you spin on him. “What the hell was that?”

He leans on his cane, smirking like the cat who ate the canary and filed malpractice suits against it. “What? I’m just thrilled you’re finally going to get a break from me hitting on you.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god.”

“Not god. Just House.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging your hands down your face.

House grins, delighted. “So it was bullshit. The little sob story you fed Cuddy.”

You deflate. “…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m impressed.” His eyes gleam with mischief. “Couldn’t come up with a better reason than pretending I’m trying to get into your pants just so you could get into Wilson’s?”

Your face burns hot enough to sterilize instruments. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand. “Relax. You’re easy to read. Crushes all over your face. Honestly, Wilson should’ve noticed by now. Man’s oblivious.”

“Please,” you say, your voice cracking into desperation, “please don’t tell him.”

House taps his cane against the floor thoughtfully, scanning you from head to toe like he’s diagnosing a particularly amusing rash. “Hmm. What’s in it for me?”

Your stomach sinks. “What?”

“Well, what’s the fun in keeping secrets for free? Gimme something. Bribery keeps our working relationship spicy.”

You stammer, “I’ll—I’ll do your clinic hours. And all your labs. And—god—stay overnight if you need me to. Just… don’t say anything to Wilson.”

House tilts his head, pretending to consider. “Tempting. But boring.” His grin turns wicked. “I want something more… unconventional.”

You groan. “Fine. What do you want?”

He rattles off some absurd demand—something about alphabetizing his Vicodin bottles by emotional resonance, or hunting down a specific brand of sugar-free jello only sold in one sketchy Jersey bodega. It’s impossible, it’s ridiculous, but you nod frantically anyway. “Yes. Okay. Done.”

“Oh,” he adds casually, “and my clinic hours are on you too.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. “Fine. Yes. Okay. Whatever.”

Satisfied, he begins limping back toward the cafeteria, but before you can sneak back in unnoticed, he raises his voice deliberately, projecting for the whole room to hear:

“Oh, and don’t forget—I expect a photo of you drooling on Wilson in bed. Otherwise, this whole ‘House is hitting on me’ story will have been a colossal waste of my time.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You spin around, cheeks blazing, whispering a horrified, “Are you kidding me?”

House smirks, gives you a mock salute, and saunters off.

You force yourself to walk back into the cafeteria, trying desperately to look normal. Wilson looks up at you, curiosity etched on his face.

You smile too brightly, sit down, and stab another cucumber.

Totally normal. Nothing suspicious here.

Not at all.

Chapter 3: Overbooked

The hotel lobby smells faintly of lemon polish and money. Beige walls, warm wooden accents, vases full of tasteful flowers—classy, casual, the kind of place you could absolutely imagine Wilson recommending.

Except you’re not imagining. You’re standing here, bone-tired, dragging your suitcase like it’s an extension of your broken soul, while the receptionist explains, *with the enthusiasm of a dying goldfish*, that your room has been given away.

“Overbooked,” she says, for the third time.

“But… I had a reservation,” you protest, your voice wobbling. “I booked weeks ago. Under my name.”

She nods, impassive. “Yes, but unfortunately someone checked into that room already. We don’t have any others available tonight.”

You stare at her like maybe she’ll spontaneously combust and reveal another key hidden under the ashes. She doesn’t.

Instead, you feel your throat close. It’s late, you’re exhausted, your shoes pinch, your hair looks like it lost a fight with a wind tunnel—and all you wanted was to stay in *this* hotel. The Wilson Hotel. The place he specifically recommended. And now—what? Wander around Virginia at midnight looking for a Motel 6?

Your eyes sting. God, no. No, no, no.

Wilson.

He knows this area. He’ll have ideas. Right?

With shaky hands, you pull out your phone and dial his number.

It rings once before he picks up. “Hello?” His voice is warm, familiar, comforting in a way that nearly undoes you on the spot.

“Hi, Dr. Wilson.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Are you—uh—already checked in?”

“Yeah. Just settled in. You?”

You bite your lip. “Well… there’s a problem. The receptionist says the hotel’s overbooked, and they already gave my room away. I don’t really—um—I don’t know where else to go. Do you maybe know another hotel around here that’s decent?”

Silence. Then a sharp edge in his tone you’re not used to hearing. “Wait. What? They can’t just—no. That’s unacceptable.”

You blink. “It’s… fine, I can—”

“No,” he interrupts, firm and almost angry. “Absolutely not. It’s late, and you must be exhausted. Give me a minute, I’ll come down and talk to them.”

Your heart lurches. He sounds angry on your behalf. And flustered as you are, the warmth that floods your chest is immediate. “Oh—uh—okay. Thanks.”

You end the call and sink onto one of the plush lobby chairs, hugging your bag like a lifeline. The place really is nice—cream upholstery, polished wood, soft lighting. People with lives far more put-together than yours glide past, smelling of perfume and confidence. You, meanwhile, are a crumpled onion of nerves.

Ten minutes later, he appears.

James Wilson, walking across the lobby like a magazine spread you have no business staring at. Casual slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair damp from the shower. Fresh, calm, absurdly good-looking. His forearms alone could probably perform successful resuscitation.

You, by contrast, look like a raccoon who’s been evicted from its trash can.

And then—he smiles. A soft, reassuring, don’t-worry-I’ve-got-this smile. He lifts a hand, gesturing you over.

Your legs work on autopilot. You roll your suitcase beside him, suddenly self-conscious under the warm glow of the lobby lights.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low but steady. “We’ll sort this out.”

You hover beside him while he confronts the receptionist. His tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard him at work, controlled but stern, each word clipped with authority.

“She has a confirmed reservation,” he says, voice like a scalpel. “You can’t just give her room away. This is unacceptable, and if I have to, I’ll file a complaint with management and with the conference board.”

Your stomach swoops. Wilson—sweet, soft-spoken Wilson—is laying it down, serious and bossy in a way that makes your chest ache and your knees… oh no.

The receptionist falters, apologizes, checks the system again. “I’m sorry, sir. We really don’t have any other rooms tonight.”

Wilson exhales through his nose, mutters a string of words under his breath that definitely do not belong in his usual Nice Doctor vocabulary. Then he switches gears, his voice softening as he looks at you.

“I won’t let you wander around Virginia in the middle of the night looking for a place to sleep,” he says firmly. “That’s not happening.” He hesitates just a beat, then adds, “You can stay in my room, if you’re comfortable with it. I am.”

Your brain malfunctions. Static.

You blink. Did he just—? Did Wilson just—?

You must be staring because his mouth quirks into a small smirk. “Well? Yes or no?”

“Oh—oh. Yeah. Sure. I mean—if you don’t mind.” You clear your throat, cheeks blazing. “I’ll find another hotel tomorrow. I just really… want a bed and a shower right now.”

He nods, satisfied. “Exactly. Come on.”

Before you can object, he takes the handle of your suitcase with an easy tug, rolling it behind him as if it weighs nothing.

You follow, your brain screaming a single, high-pitched note of disbelief.

You’re about to spend the night in James Wilson’s hotel room.

James. Wilson’s. Room.

If House ever finds out, you’re dead.

And if Wilson ever notices the way your face is burning right now… you might actually die first.

Chapter 4: The Bed Situation

The elevator ride up to his floor is torture. Not the bad kind, the good kind, the *oh-god-don’t-let-me-stare-at-his-forearms-again* kind. You’re hyper-aware of the small space, of the faint clean scent of his aftershave mixing with the shampoo still clinging to his damp hair. You keep your gaze politely ahead, but your eyes wander anyway, tracing the veins along his wrist where his sleeve is pushed back.

When the elevator dings open, you’re almost grateful, almost sad.

His room is nicer than you expected. A suite, technically—living area with a couch, a desk cluttered with papers, a neat little kitchenette, and a separate bedroom you glimpse when he wheels your luggage inside. There’s even a coffee cup abandoned on the low table, still half-full, as if he’s already started building a nest here.

“This is…” You breathe out, dropping your coat and trying not to gawk. “Wow. Fancy.”

He smiles faintly, shrugging. “Perks of being a regular at conferences. Sometimes they give me a suite if the hotel isn’t packed.” He sets your bag gently against the wardrobe and gestures to the couch. “Want some coffee? I can make another pot.”

Your whole body sighs. “Yes, please.”

By the time you’ve slipped off your shoes, your feet humming with relief, he’s already moving toward the kitchenette, sleeves rolled up like this is the most domestic, casual thing in the world. You try not to watch too hard.

But the heat in your face betrays you, so you make your escape.

The bedroom feels like a sanctuary. You pull open your suitcase, pawing through clothes until you settle on something safe-but-cute: beige sweatpants, a white tank, your soft wool cardigan. Not pajamas, exactly, but not *lingerie either, god forbid.* Fresh socks, clean underwear. All folded neatly, as though neatness will somehow disguise your ulterior motive of *not looking like a disaster around Wilson*.

The shower is bliss, washing off the fatigue of travel, the sweat and nerves. By the time you emerge, towel-dried and dressed, your skin feels new, your confidence patched together with warmth and soap.

Wilson is at the desk now, glasses perched on his nose, papers spread in front of him like a loyal army. He glances up as you appear, and the corner of his mouth lifts into that soft smile that makes your chest too tight.

“I put your coffee on the table,” he says, nodding toward the couch.

“Thanks.” You cradle the cup, savoring the warmth, the taste. It feels surreal—this private little world where Wilson works at his desk, his tie gone, his shirt casual, and you pad around in socks like you belong here.

Eventually, you glance at the clock and clear your throat. “It’s really late. I should… get to bed.”

And that’s when the awkwardness hits.

Where? The couch? The bed? You hover in the living room like an indecisive ghost while Wilson blinks at you, as if he’s only just realized the predicament.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Sleeping arrangements. Uh—no way are you taking the couch. I’ll do that. I’m a gentleman, after all.”

Your heart lurches. Wilson’s bed. You. In it.

“Wait, no,” you say too quickly, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous. This is your room. I’m already intruding.”

“No, really.” His voice is firm, but kind. “You’ll sleep better in the bed. I’ve done couches before. It’s not the end of the world.”

You stare at him, lips parted, half-tempted to argue more but too tired to win. “…Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Absolutely.” He gives you that reassuring smile again, the one that smooths out the edges of your nerves. “I’ll stay up a little longer anyway. Need to revise these notes for tomorrow.”

So you retreat to the bedroom, heart pounding like you’ve gotten away with something. The bed is warm, soft, impossibly comfortable. You slide beneath the covers, but sleep doesn’t come. Not when your brain is busy replaying Wilson’s voice, his smile, the way he’d carried your luggage like it was nothing.

Finally, impulsively, you pad back out into the living room.

He’s still there, bent over his papers, glasses low on his nose. He looks up when he hears you, surprise flickering across his face.

You fidget with your cardigan hem, cheeks burning. “Um. So. I was thinking…”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Well. If you want to… you could sleep in the bed too. I mean—I wouldn’t mind. Really. It’s a big bed. And I’d feel weird kicking you out of it entirely.”

Silence.

Wilson stares at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifts. Understanding flickers in his eyes, followed by something warmer, sharper. A smirk tugs at his mouth.

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “If you’re comfortable with that, I don’t see why we can’t… arrange something.”

Your stomach swoops. The air between you hums with a new kind of tension.

You try for a light tone, though your voice wobbles. “Just to clarify: I mean, like, actually sleep.”

He chuckles, soft and low, and the sound warms your entire body. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

“Good,” you say quickly. Then, after a beat: “I mean—unless you—uh—never mind.”

The smirk deepens, and his eyes linger on you just a beat longer before he returns to gathering his papers. “I’ll be in soon.”

You flee back to the bedroom, clutching at the edges of your cardigan, face on fire.

Somewhere between embarrassment and exhilaration, you climb into the bed again. And this time, you can’t stop smiling.

Chapter 5: Awake in the Dark

You tell yourself you’re going to sleep. Really, you do. You lie on your side, back to the door, cardigan draped over the chair, blankets pulled up to your chin like some kind of armor. If you just breathe evenly enough, he’ll think you’re out cold.

But the second the bedroom door clicks open, all the nerves in your body sit up and scream *oh god oh god oh god*.

You don’t move. You just listen.

Wilson is quiet, trying to be careful in the dark, but you hear the soft thump of his shoes coming off, the faint jingle of his belt buckle, the whisper of fabric sliding down. Your brain short-circuits.

He’s undressing. He’s undressing, oh my god oh my god oh my god—

You crack your eyes open just enough to peek. There’s a shadow moving in the faint sliver of streetlight through the curtains—broad shoulders, shirt half-off. He peels it away, slips on a plain T-shirt, and you exhale a tiny, ridiculous sigh of relief. Then the slacks go, leaving only boxers.

Okay. Okay. T-shirt and boxers. Normal. Fine. Totally survivable. Totally not illegal to notice his legs. Shut your eyes. SHUT your eyes.

You clamp them closed as he climbs into bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He squirms for a second, settling as far away from you as possible, the blankets rustling between you like a deliberate line in the sand.

Silence.

You hear him breathe. Slow, steady, heavier than yours.

Minutes pass. Or maybe it’s hours. Your body is too tense to tell. You shift slightly, rolling your shoulder, and the mattress creaks.

“You awake?” His voice is low, careful.

Your stomach drops. Busted. “Um. No?”

There’s a pause. Then a soft chuckle.

You laugh too, nervous and breathy. “Are you?”

“Not anymore.” Another chuckle, closer to a sigh. “Can’t sleep.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Why not?”

“Well,” he says, like he’s considering it seriously, “might have something to do with the five cups of conference coffee I drank. Or the fact that I’m lying in bed with a cute colleague. Hard to say.”

Heat rushes through your entire body. You hide your face against the pillow even though he can’t see you in the dark. “You—you did not just say that.”

“Too forward?” His voice is warm, teasing.

“Yes!” You squeak, then add, “Maybe. Kind of. I don’t know.”

He chuckles again, and you feel it vibrate in your chest more than you hear it.

The quiet settles again, softer this time, comfortable almost. Until his voice cuts through. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Your heart kicks up. “Yeah?”

“What were you and House talking about that day in the cafeteria? You stormed out like he’d threatened to eat your family pet.”

You freeze. Of all the questions. “Oh. Uh. That.”

“Yes. That.” He sounds amused, but curious too.

You grope around for a lie. “I—it was nothing. Just… House being House.”

“Hm.” You can feel his smile in the dark. “You know, House can lie to me. He’s a professional. You, though…” He lets it hang. “You’re terrible at it.”

Your groan is muffled by the pillow. “Oh god, this is so embarrassing.”

“Go on.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, cheeks burning. “Okay, fine. But you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“Promise.”

You don’t believe him for a second. Still, the words tumble out in a rush. “So—I wasn’t technically supposed to come to this conference. And when I asked Cuddy, she wanted to know why I was so eager, and I panicked. And I may have… told her that House was hitting on me.”

Silence. Dead, loaded silence.

You rush to fill it. “I *know*! It’s insane, but it was the first thing I thought of, and she actually believed me, and—look, I didn’t want to admit I just wanted to come because you were gonna be here, and I—”

The sound that cuts you off is laughter. Full-bodied, can’t-hold-it-in laughter.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow. “Stop laughing, I’m serious!”

“Oh, I believe you’re serious.” He’s still laughing, breathless. “That is—wow. Creative. Points for originality. Did you also bribe the receptionist and fake the overbooking? Is this some kind of grand scheme?”

You swat at him under the covers. “No! God, no. Don’t tease me, I already feel humiliated enough.”

“Sorry, sorry.” His voice is still thick with amusement. “But you have to admit, it’s impressive. All of that… just to be at the same conference as me?”

You groan. “You make it sound pathetic.”

“I make it sound flattering.”

That silences you. For a second, all you hear is both of you breathing in the dark.

Then, softer, he says, “For what it’s worth… I was actually hoping you’d be here too.”

Your breath catches. “Really?”

“Really.” His tone is easy, honest. “The overbooked room, the coffee, the fake House-crush… whatever the excuse, I’m glad you’re here.”

Something inside you unwinds. You roll onto your back, staring into the darkness where you think his face must be.

“…Me too,” you whisper.

There’s a rustle of sheets as he shifts. Closer. Not all the way, but enough that the air feels different now—warmer, humming.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“Come here.” He says it like a suggestion, not an order. Gentle. Patient.

You hesitate, then inch toward him under the covers. Your hand brushes his arm, warm through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. The contact makes both of you pause, breath catching.

And then he leans in. Slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

The kiss is awkward at first, noses bumping, lips hesitant. Then it deepens, fueled by all the nervous energy and the hours of pretending. His hand finds your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and suddenly you’re both laughing against each other’s mouths because it’s ridiculous and clumsy and so, so good.

You kiss again anyway. And again.

Until the laughter fades into something heavier, something that leaves you warm all over, tangled up in the dark with him.

Chapter 6: All the Ways You’ve Imagined

You should probably stop kissing him.

It’s late. You’re tired. You’re in Wilson’s hotel bed for god’s sake, which is already insane enough. And yet — his mouth is on yours, warm and eager, and you’re pulling at the front of his T-shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

His laugh ghosts against your lips when you shift too quickly, bumping noses again. “God, we’re terrible at this.”

You’re breathless when you mumble back, “Practice makes perfect.”

And then you kiss him harder.

The sheets twist under you as he rolls half over, bracing himself on one arm so he doesn’t crush you. The weight of him, the closeness, sends a spark down your whole body. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, thumb rubbing absent-minded circles that make your belly tighten.

It’s slow at first, fumbling, both of you laughing between kisses, but laughter melts quickly into something else. The more you taste him, the more you want, and soon your teeth graze his lower lip, making him groan low in his throat.

“Oh,” you breathe, dizzy. “That was—”

“Dangerous,” he finishes, smirking before kissing you again.

And then his tongue brushes yours, and the world tips over.

Your fingers slip under the hem of his T-shirt without thinking, brushing hot skin stretched over lean muscle. His whole body jolts at the touch, a sharp inhale breaking the kiss.

“Sorry—” you start, but he grabs your hand, presses it firmer against him.

“Don’t be.” His voice is rougher now. “Do that again.”

So you do. And it feels reckless and impossible and perfect.

He kisses you deeper, more desperate now, and the hand on your hip drifts lower until he’s squeezing the curve of your ass, pulling you closer against him. You feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh, and your brain promptly short-circuits.

“Oh my god,” you mutter against his mouth.

He chuckles, breathless. “That’s the idea.”

You swat at him, embarrassed, but then he shifts his hips just slightly and you gasp. He swallows it with another kiss, grinning like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“See? Not a bad idea at all.”

The teasing helps. It loosens something in your chest, lets you laugh again — right before he’s tugging you fully under him, settling between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The friction makes you moan, soft and shocked, and suddenly you don’t care about dignity anymore. You arch against him, chasing the pressure.

“Jesus,” he hisses, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. His breath is hot, shaky. “Do you have any* idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Your voice is barely there. “I thought—I thought you didn’t notice me.”

He laughs, sharp and incredulous, before kissing you hard enough to leave your lips swollen. “Oh, I noticed.”

His hands are on you everywhere now — sliding up under your tank top, pushing it higher. You lift your arms without hesitation, letting him peel it off and toss it somewhere into the shadows.

His gaze drops immediately. He swears under his breath, one hand cupping you through your bra. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous.”

Heat floods your entire body. “You’re just saying that.”

He shakes his head, already tugging one strap down, kissing along your shoulder. “No. Trust me. I’ve imagined this.”

And then he’s slipping your bra off, and you’re bare under his eyes. For a heartbeat you want to cover yourself, but then his mouth closes around one nipple, sucking gently, and you forget your own name.

“James—” you gasp, clutching his hair.

He hums like he enjoys the sound, like he’s memorizing it. He alternates between kisses and teasing nips, while his other hand drifts down, over your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.

You freeze for half a second. He notices, immediately lifting his head, eyes soft in the dark. “Hey. Too fast?”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “No. I just— I want this. Please.”

His expression changes — something hungry and tender all at once. He kisses you slow, grateful, before tugging the sweatpants down. They’re gone in a messy heap at the foot of the bed, along with your panties.

You’re naked. Completely naked in his bed.

He sits back on his knees, taking you in with this look that makes you squirm. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Stop staring,” you mutter, covering your face.

“Not a chance.” His hand trails up your thigh, deliberate and slow. “I’ve wanted to know what you look like like this. What you sound like.” His fingers ghost over your center, barely touching. “What you feel like.”

You’re already slick for him, aching, and when he finally slides one finger against you, you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a whimper and a curse.

He grins, pleased, and leans down to whisper against your ear: “Perfect.”

His fingers work you open slowly, carefully — one, then two, curling just right until your hips are rocking against his hand. He kisses you through it, swallowing your moans, praising you in low, desperate murmurs: “That’s it. Just like that. You’re incredible.”

And when you’re trembling under him, close enough to break, he pulls away.

“James—” Your voice cracks, pleading.

“Shh.” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your throat. “I’m not done.”

You realize what he means when he slides down the bed, settles between your thighs. You barely have time to protest before his mouth is on you, tongue stroking, lips sucking gently — and suddenly the world is nothing but white heat and his name falling from your lips.

It’s too much, too good, building fast. You fist the sheets, try to hold back, but he grabs your hips and pins you down, relentless.

“Come on,” he murmurs against you. “Let go for me.”

And you do. With a cry that you couldn’t hide if you tried, you shatter under his mouth, thighs trembling around his head.

When you finally come down, gasping, he crawls back up, kissing you like he wants you to taste yourself on his lips. You’re dizzy with it, half-laughing, half-shaking.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning, “but you love it.”

You look down, and that’s when you see how hard he is, straining against his boxers.

Your laugh comes out breathless, shaky. “You’re still dressed.”

He raises a brow. “Is that an invitation?”

Instead of answering, you slide your hand under the waistband, wrapping around him. His sharp inhale is the most satisfying sound you’ve ever heard.

The rest blurs — boxers gone, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you laughing and moaning between kisses as he finally, finally pushes into you.

It’s slow at first, careful, your nails digging into his shoulders as he lets you adjust. But then the rhythm builds, deep and steady, his name spilling from your mouth each time he thrusts into you.

The bed creaks, the air thick with sweat and breath and whispered curses. He presses his forehead to yours, groaning, “God, you feel amazing.”

You’re so close again, clinging to him, biting his lip when he kisses you hard. And when you come the second time, he follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a rough moan that sends you over the edge again.

Silence falls. The kind of silence that’s full, heavy, not empty at all.

He doesn’t move for a while, just breathes against your skin. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… this isn’t going to make the conference awkward at all.”

You laugh weakly, still trembling. “Shut up.”

The walls felt like they were squeezing in on you. Seriously, it was the only way to describe that suffocating feeling. Your chest tightened like someone had wrapped ropes around it, and every breath turned into this shallow gasp that didn't fill your lungs right. Your heart? Pounding against your ribs like it was trying to bust out and run for the hills.

Just ten minutes ago, you'd been totally fine. Slouched on Wilson's couch, half-paying attention to some penguin documentary he'd turned on, sipping a beer while he and House went at each other about their usual nonsense—this time arguing whether it's crueler to lie to a dying patient or crush them with the brutal truth. Normal Tuesday night stuff when you hung around those two.

Then out of nowhere, it slammed into you. No warning. No reason you could pinpoint. Just this tidal wave of pure dread that dragged you under before you even knew what was happening.

You slipped away to grab water, praying the tightness in your chest would ease before anyone noticed. But it just kept building. The glass you'd filled sat forgotten on the counter while you poured everything into forcing air down your throat.

"Are you doing inventory on Wilson's dishes, or just admiring his tile work?" House's voice sliced through the buzzing in your skull. You couldn't turn. Couldn't speak. The edges of your vision were going dark, like someone was closing a curtain.

"Hey." His tone snapped—still rough, but laser-focused now. You heard the *thump-tap* of his cane hitting the hardwood, coming closer. "Wilson!"

Wilson appeared in the doorway instantly. His easy smile vanished when he saw you—white-knuckling the counter, shoulders shaking like you were freezing. 

"Panic attack," House declared, already beside you. Not guessing. Knowing.

Wilson moved without hesitation, his doctor mode kicking in. "Okay," he said, calm but firm, stepping to your other side. "Okay, we're right here."

"Can't—" you choked out, the words scraping raw. "Breathe—"

"You're breathing," House said flatly. That brutal honesty actually helped anchor you somehow. "Hyperventilating feels like suffocating, but your oxygen levels are fine. You're not dying, even though your brain is convinced you are."

"House," Wilson warned, his voice tight.  

"What? Sugarcoating helps how?"  

Even through the terror flooding your veins—that crushing certainty you'd die right there on Wilson's kitchen floor—some corner of your mind understood. This was House trying to help. Soft words? Comfort? Not his style. He dealt in cold facts. Hard truths.  

And weirdly... it worked. Just enough to cling to.  

"Look at me," Wilson murmured, shifting into your blurred vision. His brown eyes held you steady—warm, worried, unshakable. "Can you focus here?"

You managed to shift your gaze to him, though your eyes were wide and unfocused.

"Good. That's good." Wilson's voice was calm and measured, the same tone he probably used with frightened patients receiving bad news. "You're having a panic attack. That's all this is. It's going to pass. You're safe. You're in my apartment, and you're safe."

"Feels like—heart attack—" you gasped.

"It's not," House said firmly. "Trust me, I've had patients having actual heart attacks."

"We're going to help you through this," Wilson continued, his hand hovering near your shoulder but not quite touching—waiting for permission. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

You managed a jerky nod, and immediately Wilson's hand was on your shoulder, warm and solid and real. An anchor point.

"House, get her some water," Wilson said.

"I'm not your nurse."

"House."

"Fine." House grabbed the glass you'd filled and brought it closer, setting it within reach. "Though I don't know what you think water's going to do. This isn't dehydration."

"It gives them something to focus on," Wilson said patiently, clearly used to explaining basic bedside manner to his best friend. "A physical action. Something concrete."

"Hmm." House leaned against the counter, watching you with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. "You know what else is concrete? The fact that you're not going to pass out. People think they're going to faint during panic attacks, but you rarely do."

"You have a terrible bedside manner," you managed to gasp out, and House's lips twitched.

"There you go. Talking. Breathing. Not dying."

Wilson shot House a look but didn't argue. Instead, he gently guided you away from the counter. "Let's sit down. Come on. The couch is right in the other room."

"Can't—move—"

"You can," House said. "One foot in front of the other. Wilson will catch you if you fall, and he'll feel very heroic about it."

"I will catch you," Wilson confirmed, his hand still steady on your shoulder. "I promise. But House is right—you're not going to fall. Your legs work fine. It just feels like they don't."

Somehow, between the two of them—Wilson's gentle encouragement and House's blunt reality checks—you managed to move. One step. Then another. Wilson kept his hand on your shoulder, a constant point of contact, while House limped alongside, his cane tapping a steady rhythm that gave you something to focus on.

By the time you made it to the couch, you were trembling all over, but you were moving. Wilson helped you sit, and you immediately curled forward, elbows on your knees, head down, trying desperately to catch your breath.

"Okay, here's what we're not going to do," House said, lowering himself into the armchair across from you with a slight grimace. "We're going to slow your breathing down," Wilson said, sitting beside you on the couch. "Not with a bag. Just with practice. Can you try to breathe with me?"

You shook your head frantically. You couldn't control your breathing. That was the whole problem.

"You can," Wilson insisted gently. "You don't have to get it perfect. Just try. Watch me." He waited until you lifted your head enough to see him, then took a slow, deliberate breath in through his nose. "In for four counts. One, two, three, four."

You tried. You really did. But your breath hitched and stuttered, and you only made it to two before you had to gasp in more air.

"That's okay," Wilson said immediately. "Try again. In for four."

"This is painful to watch," House muttered. "You're trying too hard. Stop trying to control it and just let it happen."

"That's literally the opposite of helpful advice," Wilson said.

"Is it? They're fighting their own nervous system. You can't win that fight. The more you struggle, the worse it gets." House leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked on yours. "Your body is going to do what it's going to do. The panic attack is going to run its course whether you fight it or not. Usually takes about twenty to thirty minutes to peak and then start coming down. You're probably about ten minutes in, which means you're in the worst of it right now."

"House—"

"Let me finish. What I'm saying is, stop fighting. You're not going to die. You're not having a heart attack. Your brain is lying to you, and the more you believe the lie, the more power you give it. So stop believing it."

You stared at him, chest heaving, and something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, so certain—cut through the panic just a little bit more.

"You've seen this before," you managed to say.

"Of course I have. I'm a doctor. I've seen everything." House paused.

"Breathe with me again," Wilson said softly. "And this time, don't worry about getting it perfect. Just try to make your exhale longer than your inhale. That's all. In for whatever count you can manage, out for a little bit longer."

This time, you tried. In for three shaky counts. Out for four.

"Good," Wilson said. "That's good. Again."

In for three. Out for four.

House was watching you both with an unreadable expression. "You know what else helps? Distraction. Grounding techniques. All that therapy nonsense that actually works sometimes."

"It's not nonsense," Wilson said.

"I said it works, didn't I? That's practically a glowing endorsement coming from me." House shifted in his chair. "Five things you can see. Go."

You blinked at him, confused.

"It's a grounding exercise," Wilson explained. "It helps bring you back to the present moment. Name five things you can see right now."

Your eyes darted around the room, your breath still coming too fast but maybe—maybe—a tiny bit slower than before.

"Couch," you managed.

"Good. Four more."

"TV. Coffee table. Your cane." You paused, breathing. "That stupid painting Wilson has of the sailboat."

"It's not stupid," Wilson protested mildly. "It's calming."

"It's generic hotel art," House said. "But yes, the terrible sailboat painting counts. Now, four things you can touch."

You reached out, your hand shaking, and touched the couch cushion beneath you. "This. The couch."

"Three more."

You touched your own jeans. "My jeans." Your other hand found Wilson's sleeve. "Wilson's shirt." You hesitated, then reached forward and touched the cool surface of the coffee table. "The table."

"Three things you can hear," Wilson prompted gently.

You closed your eyes, focusing. "Your voice. The refrigerator humming. Traffic outside."

"Two things you can smell."

This one was harder. You breathed in—still too fast, still too shallow, but breathing nonetheless. "Coffee. From earlier. And..." You breathed in again. "Wilson's cologne."

"It's not cologne," Wilson said. "It's aftershave."

"Same difference," House muttered. "One thing you can taste."

You ran your tongue over your lips. "Beer. From earlier."

"There you go," House said. "You just named fifteen different things. Which means you were present enough and aware enough to do that. Which means you're not dying, you're not losing your mind, and you're already starting to come down from the peak."

He was right. You were still breathing too fast, your heart was still racing, but the sharp edge of terror had dulled slightly. The world wasn't closing in quite as aggressively. You could feel the couch beneath you, Wilson's presence beside you, and the solid reality of the room around you.

"Keep breathing," Wilson said. "You're doing great."

"I don't feel great."

"No, I imagine you don't. Panic attacks are exhausting." Wilson's hand moved from your shoulder to your upper back, rubbing slow, gentle circles. "But you're getting through it. That's what matters."

You focused on the sensation of his hand, the steady circular motion. Grounding. Real. Present.

"What triggered it?" House asked. "Or did it come out of nowhere?"

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice still shaky but stronger than before. "I was fine, and then I just... wasn't."

"That happens sometimes," Wilson said. "Sometimes there's a clear trigger, and sometimes there isn't."

Wilson kept rubbing your back, patient and steady. "How are you feeling now? On a scale of one to ten, where ten is the worst, it was."

You took a moment to assess. Your heart was still beating too fast, but not as frantically. Your breathing was still shallow, but you were getting more air. The sense of impending doom had faded to a more manageable sense of unease.

"Maybe a six?" you said. "It was a ten. Now it's a six."

"Good. That's progress." Wilson glanced at House. "Can you get the water?"

House sighed dramatically but levered himself up with his cane and retrieved the glass from the kitchen. He handed it to you, and you took it with trembling hands.

"Small sips," Wilson instructed. "Don't chug it."

You sipped the water, and the cool liquid helped. Something normal. Something ordinary. Something that wasn't panic.

"You're going to be okay," Wilson said quietly. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you are."

You took another sip of water and realized that your breathing had slowed even more. You were still shaky, still anxious, but the worst of it had passed. House had been right—it peaked, and now it was coming down.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "Both of you. I'm sorry I ruined the evening."

"You didn't ruin anything," Wilson said immediately. "This isn't your fault. Panic attacks aren't something you choose to have."

"Though if you did choose to have one, Wilson's apartment is a pretty good place for it," House added. "Comfortable couch, nearby hospital if things go really wrong, and two doctors who are legally obligated to help you."

"We're not legally obligated," Wilson said. "We're your friends. We want to help you."

"Speak for yourself. I'm legally obligated by the Hippocratic Oath."

"You violate the Hippocratic Oath daily."

House M.D. Masterlist