You don’t know what surprises you more—the invitation or the fact that he meant it.

Gregory House, renowned for mocking social interaction like it’s a full-time job, had looked you dead in the eyes after rounds this afternoon and said, flatly: “Pick a dress that’ll make me look good across the table.”

You’d laughed. He hadn’t.

Now you’re seated across from him in a quiet, brick-walled restaurant you’re fairly sure Wilson must’ve told him about. House hasn’t cracked a single sarcastic joke about the wine list. His hand keeps drifting near his glass but not lifting it. His leg bounces beneath the table—not pain, this time. Nerves.

You realize it all at once. He’s trying.

Not his version of trying—insults laced with meaning, half-hearted texts at 2 a.m. No, this is something else. An open chair, a reservation, a real attempt at connection.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, watching him with a soft smile. “That’s new.”

He looks up, eyes steady. “Trying not to ruin things too fast.”