Gregory House, MD

Not only has House chosen an entire booth for two people, he's decided to further ruin any chance you had at a good reputation at this bar by opening a book.

When you walk in, he pretends not to look up, but his unsettling blue eyes track you over the top of the pages. He waits until you're within arm's reach before he speaks, loud enough to carry just slightly over the noise.

"Sit."

He gestures to the seat next to him rather than the seat opposite. That would be far too typical.

He ignores the look you pass as you sit (confused? irritated? knowing?) and shifts closer, invading your personal space under the guise of reaching for something on the table. His knee brushes against yours under the table - not by mistake. House doesn't do "mistakes".

"You look tense," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a lower, rougher register that's meant only for you, despite being in the middle of a crowded room. "Bad day, or are you just having trouble concentrating?"

While he speaks, his hand moves under the table, his fingers tracing idle patterns up your thigh. His thumb brushes higher than it should, a slow, provocative caress that sends a clear message: he knows exactly what he's doing, and he knows exactly how many people are in the room.