Cuddy burst into his office, both exasperated and angry.

"House, you missed all your clinic hours last week!" she said.

"I had cramps," he replied in a pitiful voice. "I was on my period. . . I could get a note from my doctor if you like."

He reached into his desk to pull out a doctor's pad.

"Take a Midol," she said, glaring. "And guess what? Now you have to do double your hours next week!"

"I can't," House said. "There's a Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon and my DVR isn't working."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"Perhaps you've forgotten one essential truth about our relationship, House. No matter what personal things have transpired between us, I'm still your boss. You're still my employee. You do what I tell you or I will terminate you!"

"You got me there," he said.

She squinted at him.

"So you'll do it?" she said skeptically.

"Of course," he said.

Still hesitant, she turned to leave.

"Do you think they'd prefer YouTube or an actual disc?" he asked casually, as she reached the door.

"What?"

"The members of my team. When I send them the video of that sexy Sleeping Beauty dance you did for me on my birthday. YouTube or disc?"

Her face fell.

"You wouldn't, House," she said quietly.

"Wouldn't I?" he countered.

She inhaled.

"Okay, you win. Again. In fact, do whatever you want. You always do anyway. Take all of next week off! Take all of next year off. I don't give a crap, House. I'm done!"

She stormed out.

House watched her as she left. For some reason, his victory didn't feel quite as sweet as he had hoped.

Later that day, he did something he hadn't done in a while. He grabbed a cigarette, tucked it behind his ear and made his way to the roof.

But when he got up there, he wasn't alone.

Cuddy was sitting on the floor, her back to the guard rail, her head down, her shoes flung off beside her.

"Jesus woman. Do you have a LoJack on me?" House barked.

She looked up. Her face was streaked with tears.

"Cuddy!" he rushed up to her. "Are you okay? Is it Rachel?"

She hastily wiped her face.

"Rachel's fine, House," she said. There was an edge to her voice.

"Your mom?"

"She's fine, too, House. It's none of your business. Everything's fine. Just leave me alone."

House hesitated.

"Is there anything I can do? Did somebody hurt you? I'll kill them."

She looked at him in utter disbelief.

"Go away, House," she said.

"Okay," he said, feeling helpless.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized that she was crying because of him.

"You're an idiot," he said out loud to himself in the stairwell.

By the time she emerged from the roof, she had put her game face back on.

House, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, marveled at her toughness.

No one in a million years would've guessed that she'd been up there crying, he thought. She looked like she had just come back from a trip to the spa.

"I'm an idiot," he said to her.

She looked at him. Knew that he knew.

"Yes, you are," she said evenly.

"I never meant to make you cry."

"Well, you're pretty damn good at it."

"I don't know what I'm doing. You know that, right? I literally have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

"You're being an ass, House. It's what you do best."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "In theory, I want you to hurt as much as I do. In practice, I don't ever want to see you cry again."

For a second, her eyes welled up again. She blinked, stopped herself.

"I know you don't want to hurt me," she said. "But you will, again and again and again. It's your nature."

"Then I'll make it a game," he said.

"What?"

"Like you said, it's my nature. We both know I do well with challenges. For every time I say something rude or hurtful, I'll put a quarter in a jar. Four quarters equals one hour of clinic duty."

"That's insane."

"So is this situation."

She was about to say something else when Foreman came bursting into the stairwell.

"There you are, House. We've been looking all over for you. Our patient keeps going into cardiac arrest—but the scan shows nothing wrong with his heart!"

House gave Cuddy a meaningful look and dutifully followed Foreman back to patient's room.

The next day, Cuddy arrived early to her office, as she always did.

She did a double take.

On her desk was a large glass jar, filled to the rim with quarters.

It had a post-it note on it, in House's handwriting.

"Sorry."

There must've been 500 quarters in the jar—or 125 extra clinic hours.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she said, shaking her head.

But for the first time in weeks, she smiled, despite herself.