You knew something was off the second the valet called him sir with actual fear in his voice.

The restaurant looked like the kind of place that didn’t have a menu online. The kind of place where women wore diamonds the size of jawbreakers and nobody asked for prices. You were in your best dress, sure—but even so, the hostess eyed your heels like they weren’t red-bottomed enough.

And House? House looked smug. Not just smug—rich bastard smug. The way he leaned on his cane with full theater. The way he knew they’d seat him immediately without a reservation.

"You didn’t tell me we were going to the godfather of French fusion,” you hiss under your breath as the maître d’ bows and sweeps you into a room filled with low chandeliers and quiet classical music.

House shrugs. “Figured we’d celebrate. You didn’t kill the patient this week. That's rare.”

You blink at the table—real linen napkins, an actual crystal water goblet—and choke a little when you see the wine list. One bottle costs more than your rent. “…You know this place is insane, right?”

“Mm.” He smirks. “You deserve it.”

Your heart stutters. But you cover it. With a grin, you lean forward. “Wow. You're really committing to this whole sugar daddy thing, huh?”

You expect a snarky comeback. Something about how he’s too grumpy to be anyone’s daddy. Instead—he pauses. His eyes drop to your mouth. His fingers brush his scotch glass. “…Well,” he murmurs, voice low. “Long as you know what that makes you.”

You flush. He smirks. You’re in trouble.