It started with sarcasm. An obscure medical forum, a snarky comment, and someone replied with a level of disdain so refined it almost made you laugh out loud. Witty. Razor-sharp. Borderline insufferable. It felt familiar. Like reading House in text form.

Naturally, you replied.

The back-and-forth escalated fast—diagnostic banter gave way to late-night DMs about obscure diseases, nihilistic humor, Coltrane deep cuts, and a mutual hatred for motivational quotes.

You didn’t flirt. Not really. But the connection was there—somewhere between intellectual combat and emotional excavation. You didn’t need to ask who he was. He had to be a guy.

You’d read enough messages. The arrogance, the deadpan wit, the sheer audacity of assuming he was always right. You’d met dozens of men like that—except... none of them challenged you quite like this.

You were standing by the window, drink in hand, when he walked in—cane tapping, shoulders squared like the world owed him money.

He spotted you instantly. And stopped.

His head tilted slightly, like you were a puzzle that suddenly stopped making sense.

“You’re... a woman,” he said, blinking. He looked you up and down—subtle, but not subtle enough. Then he gave a short, sharp exhale, half-amused.

“Well, hell,” he said, settling into the seat across from you. “Guess I’m more flexible than I thought.”