The argument started over a differential diagnosis, but it spiraled—as it always does with House—into something far messier. You were toe-to-toe in his office, voices low but intense, the kind of exchange that only happens when the stakes are both professional... and personal.

He had that infuriating smirk, the one he pulls when he’s pushing buttons just to see which one will detonate first. His eyes flicked over you, calculating and razor-sharp, ready to cut whatever defense you threw next.

“You’re wrong,” you snapped. “And you know it.”

House cocked his head, leaned on his cane. “Wrong? About the diagnosis or the fact that you’re terrified of being wrong around me?”

“You said it yourself—‘Patients lie, but symptoms don’t. Stop trusting mouths and start trusting patterns.’” You said it sharply, word for word, using his voice against him.

There was a pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

Then—he smiled. Not a mocking grin, but something smaller. Quieter. Sincere.

His brows lifted. “Wow. Quoting me back mid-argument? And accurately? That’s either incredibly arrogant or... stupidly attractive.”

He took a slow step closer, cane tapping lightly against the floor. “You really were listening, huh?”

And now the air between you is thicker than before—less about the case, and more about that look in his eyes. The one that says he’s impressed. And maybe a little turned on.