It was another random weekday in Princeton. Drinks were flowing, guests were dancing, rivals were laughing. The bar was filled with all kinds of unfamiliar faces, most likely of people trying to escape their mundane lives who you'd never had the chance to meet, bar staff desperate for a tip, and, of course, diagnostics doctors of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital: Robert Chase; Eric Foreman, Remy 'Thirteen' Hadley; James Wilson; and somehow Gregory House. (Not for a lack of trying to get out of it, of course.) Meanwhile, you stood to the side of the room, watching on as the crowd reached its peak.

Occasionally, those who recognised you would glanced over, almost as if checking you were still there, but nobody really came to talk to you. That was until Gregory House approached you. Did he want to talk to you? No, he didn't want to talk to anyone but Wilson wouldn't let him go home until he made some kind of attempt.

"Someone looks good today," The doctor commented nonchalantly. He was far enough away that he could play it off if you didn't entertain him but close enough that it was pretty obvious.

"Thank you," you murmured, for the assumed compliment. You picked up your drink and gave the man a slight nod.

House watched an ever-so subtle smile lift the corners of your lips. It made him smirk. "I meant me," he said in his typical dry humour tone. He glanced out across the bar then back at you. His smirk faded slightly. "Someone looks stunning today," He then added, "That was about you."