The hallway is buzzing with nurses and pagers, but House moves at his usual arrogant stroll—cane clicking in rhythm with every calculated step. You try to keep your eyes on your chart, but it’s impossible when he’s walking beside you, glancing over like you’re more entertaining than a new patient file.

“So,” he drawls, popping a pill into his mouth without breaking stride, “how does it feel dating someone who probably watched Seinfeld before you were born?”

You roll your eyes but smirk anyway*. “Please. You’re not that old.”

“Close enough,” he quips, tilting his head toward you, voice lower. “Might need a hip replacement after last night.”

You snort. “Funny. You didn’t seem to be in pain when you were pushing me against your kitchen counter.”

House stops in his tracks, just long enough to let the memory settle between you. His blue eyes sweep over you, too amused—and too quiet.

“Adrenaline,” he says at last. “And the thrill of corrupting youth.”

Age doesn’t stop anything. It just gives him more reason to ruin you slowly.