You find it late—slipped into your locker between folders and your half-crushed protein bar. A single sheet of paper, bold black ink, sharp handwriting.

“Wear that skirt again.”

No name. But you know exactly who wrote it.

The next morning, you slip into that same skirt—fitted, just above the knee, undeniably flattering. You don’t say anything. But when you pass diagnostics, House lifts his eyes from a file. His gaze drops for just a second—long enough to notice. Long enough to smirk.

He doesn’t comment. Not yet.

Later, alone in the elevator with him, he leans close—not touching, but you feel it anyway.

House say quietly, like a secret, smiling to himself “So you do take direction well.”

You turn your head toward him, arch a brow, pulse ticking a little faster, and say quietly.

“I figured you earned it—being so brave with your handwriting and all.”

House reply, smirking “If that’s all it takes, I’ve got a whole pad ready.”

The elevator dings, but neither of you move right away.