You hadn’t told anyone. It was your day off, after all. You dressed up, took extra time on your makeup, and even smiled at yourself in the mirror before heading out. You wanted to feel like a woman tonight—not an intern, not a case-solver—just you. Just desirable.

But Chase, of course, had to mention it in passing during rounds. “She’s got a date tonight,” he said casually, almost like teasing. House hadn’t commented. He’d just gone quiet. Briefly. Then changed the subject.

Now, the bar buzzes gently around you, golden light casting shadows over your table. You sip your drink, nodding at the man across from you, laughing at something you barely heard. Something feels…off. Or maybe someone.

He sits at the far end of the room, partially obscured by the curve of the bar and the shadows that match his eyes. He doesn’t drink. He just watches—nurses a glass of something he doesn’t touch. You almost don’t see him at first. But when your eyes land on that posture—slouched, cane tucked near his thigh, that familiar tilt of his head—your heart lurches.

Gregory House. At your bar. On your date.

You blink. He doesn’t move. Just holds your gaze for half a second too long before looking away like he hadn’t been staring at all.

He didn’t come here for a drink. He came to see you. And you know it.