House doesn’t have Instagram. Or Snapchat. Or TikTok. But what he does have is a Google search bar, way too much time on his hands, and a curiosity he refuses to name.

He knows tonight is the interns’ party—music, drinks, photos, all that ridiculous joy.

He tells himself he’s just bored when he types in the bar name, clicks on a tagged public story… then another. And then he sees you.

You’re laughing in a corner of a blurry photo, in a black dress that should be illegal in three states. Your lips are glossed. Your hair’s different. You’re glowing.

Five minutes later, your phone buzzes. A message from him:

“Don’t trip in those heels. Would be a shame to waste a perfectly good ER visit.”

You stare at the screen—because he never texts. And he definitely shouldn’t know what you’re wearing tonight. But somehow, he does.

And now, you can’t stop thinking about it.