At first, it just feels like House is paying a little too much attention to you. Not enough to be alarming. Just... noticeable.

House notices everything, so when he comments on your new shampoo before you mention changing it, you brush it off. When he starts bringing you coffee on mornings after you barely sleep, you assume he picked up on the dark circles under your eyes. When he tells you to stop leaving your kitchen window unlocked at night, you pause for a second before asking how he even knew it was unlocked in the first place.

“Lucky guess,”

He says easily, already reaching over to steal food off your plate before you can think too hard about it.

That’s the thing about House. He redirects effortlessly. Every conversation bends the way he wants it to. By the time you realize something he said was strange, he’s already moved on and somehow made you feel stupid for noticing.

The weirdness builds slowly after that. Your missing scarf reappears folded neatly on your couch after being gone for nearly a week. House somehow knows you cancelled dinner plans before you mention it to anyone. He starts showing up outside your apartment building whenever you get home late from work, always with some flimsy excuse ready before you even ask.

Then the messages start.

Not threatening. That would almost be easier to process. Instead they’re observant in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You looked exhausted today.

Blue looks better on you than green.

You should really lock your fire escape window.

That last one makes your stomach drop so hard you almost feel sick, because nobody should know about the fire escape window. You show House immediately the next time you see him, shoving your phone into his hands while he sprawls lazily across the diagnostics couch.

He reads the message once, expression unreadable. It’s like he barely glanced over the messages. Like he already knows what it says.

“Hm,”

He hums shortly.

“Hm? Thats your response??”

You repeat incredulously, sounding mildly offended.

“You have a stalker. Congratulations. You’ve become interesting enough for obsession.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

You throw a cushion at him. House catches it one-handed without looking away from the screen.

“You tell security yet?”

“They’ll think I’m overreacting.”

“You are overreacting. But you’re also definitely being stalked.”

He answered calmly. The sentence shouldn’t be reassuring, but somehow it is. Mostly because it’s House. He says insane things with enough confidence that your brain stops questioning them after a while.

Still, something starts feeling... off after that.

Not with the messages.

With him.

House gets more attentive the worse your anxiety gets. He starts hovering constantly, showing up at your apartment with takeout you never asked for, lingering after work under weak excuses, walking you to your car after late shifts even while insulting you the entire time.

But then he starts saying things he shouldn’t know.

“What time did you finally fall asleep?”

You blink at him.

“How do you know I slept badly?”

“You look awful.”

“You say that every day.”

“Today it’s medically relevant.”

Another time he casually asks if your bedroom blinds are still broken, and when you ask how he even knows they’re broken, he answers too quickly.

“Your apartment faces the street.”

“You’ve never been across the street from my apartment.”

For the first time in the conversation, House hesitates. Tiny. Barely visible. Then he rolls his eyes like you’re the problem.

“Oh wow, you caught me being outdoors. Want a cookie?”

And somehow the conversation ends with you apologizing for sounding suspicious. That’s what he does. Makes you doubt your own instincts without even trying.

The messages keep coming after that. Always from different numbers. Different emails. Different accounts. Always things nobody should know.

You pace when you’re anxious.

You looked happier today.

Your best friend watches people when he thinks too hard.

That one unsettles you enough that you immediately show House the second you get to Diagnostics. He’s sitting at the table tossing a tennis ball against the wall, catching it lazily one-handed between bounces.

House reads the message.

Something flickers across his face too quickly to identify, then it’s gone.

“You think it’s someone from the hospital?”

“Probably. Hospitals are full of lunatics.”

“You don’t seem worried.”

“I’m not worried. If they wanted to hurt you, they would’ve escalated already.”

The certainty in his voice makes your stomach twist.

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

House shrugs, seemingly unbothered.

“It’s accurate.”

After that, the feeling that something is wrong gets harder to ignore. Not because of the stalker, because of House.

Because every time something happens, he already seems to know. Because every time you panic, he appears before you even call him. Because he notices details nobody should notice.

And because sometimes you catch him looking at you strangely when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. Not friendly. Not casual.

—

One night you wake up around three in the morning because you hear movement somewhere in your apartment. Your heart nearly stops. You grab the nearest heavy object off your nightstand and stumble into the hallway half-awake, pulse hammering violently in your throat, only to freeze when you see House standing barefoot in your kitchen drinking water like he belongs there.

You stare at him in horror.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

House looks mildly annoyed by your reaction.

“You scream loudly.”

“How did you get in?”

“You gave me a key.”

“No I didn’t.”

That finally makes him pause. Briefly. Then he rolls his eyes.

“Yes you did. After your lock jammed last month.”

The problem is you genuinely can’t remember if that’s true. House walks toward you slowly after that, taking the object out of your hands before setting it aside.

“Go back to sleep.”

He mutters. You nodded and shuffled off back to your room. The idea of him hurting you feels impossible even while something deep in your stomach keeps twisting every time he knows something he shouldn’t.

You phone buzzes on the nightstand with another message from an unknown number.

He’s lying to you.

You stare at the screen, shaking as you grabbed your phone and stumbled outside. House looks up from his phone, tucking it back into his pocket. He doesn’t seem surprised, or curious. His tone is casual when he finally speaks.

“Another message?”