You were sure House would skip the oncology gala. He always found an excuse—mocked the wine list, the pointless speeches, the forced suits.

So when you arrive—bare shoulders, red satin dress catching every flicker of light—you’re already looking for a seat without expecting him.

Until you see him.

Leaning against the bar, cane in hand, glass of scotch already half-full… wearing a dark burgundy suit. Rich, smooth, and so deliberate.

He catches your eye over the rim of his glass. Smirks. "Don’t flatter yourself. It was clean, and within reach."

But he lingers when your eyes trail down the color. He saw your reaction. And he doesn't walk away.

Later, when you pass him—just close enough—he murmurs:

“You said red looked good on me. I listen sometimes.”