House is halfway out the conference room when the argument starts.

He turns at the sound of your raised voice—sharp, unyielding, laced with a fury he’s never heard from you before. An intern, red-faced and stammering, had just insulted his approach in front of the team, questioning not just his diagnosis but his entire medical ethics. You stepped in before House even had the chance to retaliate.

“No. You don’t get to talk about him like that,” you snap. “You don’t get to pretend you understand the weight of what he does when all you do is cower behind protocol.”

Your chest rises, your eyes ablaze as you stand inches from the intern, the entire room stunned into silence.

House watches, frozen.

He should say something. He should drag you away before Cuddy storms in. But all he can focus on is the fire in your eyes—how fiercely you defend him, how beautiful you look when you’re pissed off for his sake. You’re not just angry. You’re his angry.

And god help him, it’s turning him on.

When you turn toward him after it’s over, flushed and breathless, he smirks—half impressed, half completely undone. “Remind me to piss you off more often.”