Cure- House, MD

chapter 13: are you mine?

I'm curled up on the couch, legs tucked under me, the soft hum of the TV filling the quiet. I'm not really watching it—some sitcom I've seen a hundred times—but it's better than silence. The half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table stares back at me, daring me to refill it, but I ignore it. For now.

My phone buzzes beside me, lighting up the dim room. I grab it, expecting something from the hospital or maybe my mom checking in. Instead, I see his name.

House.

I hesitate for half a second before swiping to read the message.

"Back in town? Need me to check for turbulence-related injuries?"

I blink at the screen, my lips twitching into a reluctant smile. Of course. Only House could turn a casual check-in into something laced with innuendo.

Rolling my eyes, I start typing back, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I debate how to respond. Finally, I settle on something simple.

"I'm fine, thanks. No turbulence-related injuries to report."

His reply comes almost immediately. 

"Disappointing. I was hoping for a chance to play doctor."

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. 

"No need. You're already play it every day."

His reply?

"True, but playing doctor with you sounds more fun."

My phone buzzes again, and I glance down, expecting another text. Instead, it's House calling. I hesitate for a moment, my thumb hovering over the screen. He rarely calls unless he's about to say something I'll regret answering for. Finally, I answer.

"What?" I say, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

"Good to hear your sunny disposition survived the flight," he quips, his voice as dry and familiar as ever. "Busy?"

I glance at the TV and the half-empty wine glass. "That depends. Are you about to make my night worse?"

"Probably," he replies without missing a beat. "But I'll sweeten the deal. I'm going out to eat. There's a steak with my name on it. You can come along. Or don't, and I'll just assume you're eating cereal in your pajamas."

"Wow, charming invitation," I say, rolling my eyes even though he can't see me. "You do this with everyone, or am I just special?"

"Special," he says, the word dripping with sarcasm. "So, what's it gonna be?"

I sit back on the couch, twirling a strand of hair between my fingers. "Wait a minute. Is this a date?"

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear his smirk. "No," he says simply. "I don't do dates. This is... two colleagues eating overpriced food and pretending to tolerate each other. Very professional."

"Right," I say, letting the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile. "So professional."

"Exactly," he replies, his tone completely unserious. "Now, are you coming, or should I tell the waiter I need a table for one?"

I roll my eyes but stand, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. "Fine. But if this turns into you grilling me about my life choices, I'm leaving."

"Hm," he says, the humor still evident in his voice. "Be ready in twenty. And dress pretty."

He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me standing in the middle of my living room, already regretting saying yes.