“Who is she?”

That’s the question House had asked when he first saw you walk through the hospital doors, white coat crisp, voice quiet but decisive, unbothered by his reputation.

You didn't flinch when he limped past you. You didn't blush when he made a crude joke. You didn't even smirk when he tried to catch you in a lie.

You just looked him in the eye, called him "Doctor House," and made the right diagnosis. That was a month ago.

Now he knows your birthday. The exact way you take your coffee. The weird way your nose twitches when you’re thinking. Your Spotify top five. The name of your cat. And that you had an ex who didn’t deserve you.

Wilson glares at him from across the table, chewing his salad slowly. “You’ve brought her up five times in ten minutes. That’s not normal. Even for you.”

House shrugs, sprawled on the couch in Wilson’s office like it’s his therapist’s chaise lounge. “She’s not that interesting. I’m just—vetting. Could be a narcissist. Or a sociopath.”

“Or she’s just not into you and you can’t handle it.”

“She laughs at my jokes,” House fires back.

“So does Foreman. You’re not obsessed with him.”

House scowls. “She knows things. Things no resident should know. She said ‘temporal arteritis’ like it was nothing. No hesitation. She doesn’t even Google things when I ask her to.”

Wilson raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of flirting or building a criminal case?”

“She eats lunch in her car sometimes,” House mutters, eyes flicking to the window. “Drives a beat-up Subaru. Never complains when she has a 16-hour shift. Doesn’t check her phone like the others. And she’s been wearing the same pair of boots for a week. Who does that?”

Wilson leans forward. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re doomed.”

House doesn’t deny it.

Back in Diagnostics, you’re hunched over the whiteboard, sketching out theories in your careful handwriting. House walks in silently, watching you. You don’t notice right away.

He smirks. You’re wearing those boots again. “Still pretending not to be fascinating?”