The elevator doors had barely closed before the tension snapped like an exposed wire.

“Don’t twist my diagnosis just because it doesn't fit your god complex,” you fired, arms crossed as House leaned back against the opposite wall, smirking.

“‘God complex’? That’s rich coming from someone who’s three years into medicine and already rewriting textbooks.”

You rolled your eyes. “At least I check the facts.”

“And yet here we are,” he replied, tilting his head with that infuriating glint in his eyes. “Stuck in a steel box with someone who apparently thinks arguing with me is productive.”

“It’s not about productivity,” you snapped, stepping closer. “It’s about you never letting anyone be right if it’s not you.”

He didn’t flinch. He studied you—something sharper than amusement flickering behind his stare.The space between you shrank with every breath. He was taller. You were fire.

Then—click.

Your breath caught as he reached behind him and slammed the red EMERGENCY STOP button. The elevator jolted to a halt.

“What the hell are you—”

He pushed off the wall in two deliberate steps, closing the distance, hand braced beside your head. And then his mouth was on yours. Hot. Relentless. A kiss not meant to end the fight, but to raise the stakes.