You weren’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when you walked into your office after rounds. But the second you saw the orange pill bottle on your desk—his pill bottle—your stomach twisted with recognition.

Vicodin. Gregory House, M.D. But it wasn’t just the bottle.

There was a sticky note taped to the side. Scrawled in House’s unmistakable, half-illegible handwriting

"Hope you’re following the dosage instructions. I recommend taking me twice nightly—more if symptoms persist"

His phone number underneath. No context. No signature. Not that you needed one.

You froze for a moment, the air thick around you. This wasn’t an accident. House never left his Vicodin behind—especially not with a flirty note. This was a play. A proposition. An invitation.