It started with you sitting at the edge of Cuddy’s desk, phone pressed to your ear, eyes scanning the case file in front of you. You were calm, composed, even while House’s voice rambled through the receiver about an urgent update—something about a rare autoimmune response and the usual chaos that followed.

What House didn’t know, however, was that Cuddy had knelt down in front of you just minutes before, her expression unreadable but focused, hands resting gently on your thighs like they were something fragile.

You cleared your throat, masking the small hitch in your breath. “Right, so if the labs confirm the protein spike, that rules out the parasitic theory...” Your voice didn’t waver, but your free hand gripped the edge of the desk a little tighter.

Cuddy glanced up at you, like she was both testing your composure and silently asking for permission to continue. There was a hint of mischief in her eyes—mischief tempered by genuine care.

On the other end of the line, House was ranting about incompetence in the lab. “—and if they screw this up again, I’m getting a new tech. You still there?”

“Mm-hm,” you hummed, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “I’m here. Just... focusing.”

Cuddy’s mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles at that, before returning to her task—quiet, reverent, utterly devoted. Before her tongue gave a sharp lick just on your clitoris.