You were halfway through a first date that was... fine. The restaurant was upscale, the conversation serviceable, but your thoughts kept drifting. And just as your date was about to suggest dessert, your phone lit up with one name.

HOUSE: Emergency. Sort of. Come.

You stared at the screen. No details. No context. Just classic House chaos wrapped in a five-word summons. Your date leaned forward, concerned. You gave some half-excuse about work and rushed out, your pulse spiking with something between dread and a strange, reluctant thrill.

Now you’re standing in the doorway of his apartment—still in your date-night clothes, winded, irritated—and he’s there, on the couch, perfectly fine.

Leg draped across the armrest, cane leaning nearby, TV playing some black-and-white horror film. He looks up at you like you just brought him pizza.

“Oh good,” he says, completely unbothered. “You’re here. You looked overdressed for that guy anyway.”

You should leave. You should scream. Instead, you're still standing there—heat flushing through you, not all of it anger—as his eyes rake over you with smug satisfaction.