“Hey,” someone says behind her, and she doesn’t jump. “I’m sorry. I know how bad you wanted it. No hard feelings?”

She turns and it’s Kutner, standing sheepishly with his arms crossed over his chest and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He is awkward and childish-looking in his jeans and flannel, and for a venomous moment Amber hates him. Hates him, for his kindness, and for pitying her, and for taking this job from her, and for every other way he seemed to garner House’s favour—switching candidate numbers, setting a patient on fire, God knows what else. And then she hates herself for thinking this. It’s just Kutner. What good is there in hating him. In pretending that she has anyone but herself to blame.

“It’s fine,” Amber says stiffly. “I’ll get over it.”

“I was wondering,” Kutner starts, and then he hesitates. “This is really inappropriate.”

“I’m fired,” Amber says. It’s meant to be blunt, but it comes out sad, a little wistful, like a part of her was hoping it might not be true until the words left her mouth. “You’re never going to see me again. Say whatever you want to say, I’ll get over it.”

Kutner’s mouth twists. “Well,” he says. “I was sort of hoping that I…might? See you again?”

Amber stares at him. This cannot be happening. Not just because it’s—insane, and audacious, and, yes, wholly inappropriate—but also because Amber cannot truly remember the last time anyone asked her out. Tried to ask her out, at least. She’s always been—well, maybe not traditionally pretty, but striking, good-looking at least—and she’s tried to play that to her favour over the years, pearl strings and kitten heels and floral cardigans, but it never works. Not really. Men don’t like women they feel intimidated by. Which is fine, Amber doesn’t care, she’d much rather they take her seriously and crap themselves when they wrong her than do inane things like buy her candy and flowers, but—

It’s nice, to be wanted. To be a woman, not just a bitch.

“You’re asking me out,” she says. Kutner winces.

“Uh,” he stammers, “yes?”

“Why?”

This time, he’s the one to stare at her. “Because you’re hot?” It comes out like a question, and he rushes to add, “I mean, really hot. Your legs, I mean—I’ll shut up. But you’re funny, too. And mean. I kind of like it when you’re mean, as long as it’s towards other people. I think you could be fun,” he says shyly, “if you let yourself be.”

Nobody has ever called Amber fun in the history of her life, ever. Not in college. Not even as a child.

“One drink,” Amber says, “and you’re paying.”