You sat in the chair beside your friend, watching as Dr. House scribbled on a prescription pad with his usual air of disinterest. He had barely looked at either of you, too busy making sarcastic remarks about the diagnosis.

—“You’re not dying. Well, not yet. Give it a few decades,” he muttered, finishing the prescription.

He ripped the page off, folding it lazily before handing it to your friend. But as they unfolded it, their eyebrows shot up.

—“Uh… House?”

You glanced over, confused—until you saw it. Along with the actual medication, there was an extra line written in his unmistakable handwriting:

"Also: a dinner with your friend."

Your friend gaped, then looked at you. You turned to House, who leaned on his cane with a smirk.

—“What? You came in here voluntarily, didn’t even flinch at my charm, and didn’t run screaming. That’s got to mean something.”

He tapped the prescription pad against his palm.

—“So? Take the meds. Think about the offer.”

And just like that, he was already turning away, acting as if he hadn’t just handed you the most unconventional invitation of your life.