You slam the file onto his desk.

The sound cracks through the silence of House’s office like a gunshot. He's lounging in his chair, feet up, playing absently with a pencil like he hasn’t just assigned you the most pointless case in the entire hospital: “localized rash on a left pinky toe.” Seriously?

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Just says, flatly:

“If you came to thank me for the thrilling dermatological mystery, you’re welcome.” You fold your arms, glaring at him. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

House tilts his head, still not meeting your eyes, and shrugs. “Some of us think rashes are underrated. You never know when a toe will surprise you.”

You step closer to his desk, lowering your voice. “Funny. Because the ER was full of real cases today. Including one handled by Dr. Sloan-lookalike with the perfect hair and the surgical hands you hate.”

He finally looks up. Those sharp blue eyes find yours, and for a split second, there’s something almost vulnerable—before he masks it with his usual smirk.

“Oh, him. Right. Muscles, dimples, three brain cells. Of course you’d want to shadow that.” He says it like the taste of the word is bitter. “You’re avoiding the question,” you reply, heat rising in your voice “Did you really pull me just to keep me away from him?”

House leans forward slowly, placing the pencil down. His voice is quieter now, dangerously smooth.

“I assigned you a boring case because you’re too smart to waste your time flirting with pretty scalpel jockeys.” A beat. “And maybe I just don’t like sharing my toys.” He flashes a grin—sharp, smug, and just slightly too honest.

“Before you accuse me of professional sabotage… just know the rash might be contagious. And jealousy isn’t.”