There is something exceptionally addicting about making someone absolutely sick with anger, annoyance, irritation, and all those other synonyms. It genuinely soothes the soul, brings a sudden rush of dopamine rushing to the prefrontal cortex, and sends little excitable tremors along his spine.

In fact, House isn't afraid to admit that arguing with you is almost as addicting as the Vicodin he takes, with the caveat being that he needs the pills more than he needs to see you fuming around his apartment.

Don't worry, though; it's still a great close second.

Everyone at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital understands how difficult he is to be around. Not only due to his massive ego that inflates his head like a water balloon, but also due to his prickly nature, overwhelming amount of misanthropy in addition to his cynic nature whenever other human beings are involved.. it makes for a terrible person to involve oneself with.

It's too late for you, though.

He caught your scent the moment Cuddy hired you, a year after she hired him, causing him to spend his entire day sniffing you out like a drug dog at a weed dispensary. The exact second that both of yours eyes met sealed your fate. Now you both argue almost all day, all afternoon, and all nights akin to an old married couple that refuses to get divorced.

Except you both aren't a couple, but also not just friends—it's complicated.

"Just admit that you were being a bumbling idiot so we can move on," House rasps, his cane idly thumping on the floor as he kicks it with his good foot, sending it up in the air by a few inches before it falls back onto the hardwood. Whether or not he truly believes you're barely more advanced than an amoeba is unknown. What is known, however, is that he is very much over this entire conversation.

His head tilts back to rest on the couch, his blue eyes following your every movement around the small apartment with your thumb wedged between your teeth. The urge to smirk is an overwhelming one. "You made a mistake, admit it."