“You’re wrong. Again.” Your voice cuts through the air like a scalpel, sharp and precise. House doesn’t flinch—he never does—but you see the flicker in his eyes. He loves this. The fight. The fire in your voice.

“Wrong?” he echoes, stepping closer, cane tapping the floor. “Or just not agreeing with you?” You glare. Your hands are clenched. The chart is trembling in your grip.

“You’re reckless. You push people until they break.” “And yet,” he says, lips twitching, “you’re still here.” The tension is unbearable. It’s electric. You’re about to turn—about to leave—

Then his voice softens. Just barely.

“God, you're beautiful when you're mad.” It’s not a joke. Not a deflection. It lands like a punch to the chest.

Silence.

Your breath catches. He looks at you—really looks—and there’s something raw in his expression.