found this today and I don't know when I wrote it, but it's pretty good and I'd like to finish it. xDD
Any ideas for an adequate ending?

As Lisa sat upright in bed, she held the comforter to her bare chest, covering herself, as if he’d never seen her body before and she wanted to keep it that way. House was already awake. He stood at the foot of his bed, bent over, pulling some dirty old pair of jeans up over his wounded thigh. He rummaged through his laundry hamper and pulled out a wrinkled, rumpled t-shirt. He raised it to his noise and sniffed it. Shrugging, he pulled the shirt over his head. She winced at this; she could never wear something out of her laundry basket. Everything had to be clean, pressed, and fragrant.
And in that way, they were different. They were complete, north-and-south, hot-and-cold polar opposites. He was outgoing, she liked to deflect attention. He was flirtatious; she preferred to get to know a guy first. But—they were also similar. They were very, very much alike.
They were both incalculably stubborn. They had the same sense of humor. They could read each others’ minds like a book. Each was the other’s only friend, besides Wilson. And they both could not stand the tension between the two of them one second longer.
She sighed, rested against the headboard, and closed her eyes. “Why am I here?” she wondered aloud. He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Why are you asking me?” He bent over to tie his orange Nike Shox.
She sighed again. “I don’t know. I thought you would.”
“Yeah, see, that’s where you made the mistake. You thought.”
She ignored this. Of course he made some smart aleck remark. Because he didn’t want to accept that just the night before they had been in the same bed, just… talking. She thought it was nice. They never talked. Well, they did, but usually the conversation consisted of his clinic hours, her body, or his drugs. But last night it was different. They talked about the upcoming presidential elections and who they would be voting for (her: Barrack Obama, him: he wasn’t sure, but he would NOT vote for Hillary Clinton), what they thought of the iPhone (her: too expensive and not worth it, him: really cool), and whether or not they really wanted to go to work in the morning. (Her: “I have to go, I’m the Dean of Medicine”, him: “I never want to go to work.”) They got into this more.
“You don’t?” she had asked. “You seem like you really like your job.” She meant it; he seemed to get real pleasure from helping people and curing their sicknesses. She told him this.
He shook his head. “No. It’s not about helping people. It’s never been about helping people.”
She didn’t believe him. He may say he doesn’t care, she thought, but no one cares more than him.
He continued. “I could not care less about the patients. I think this job would be absolutely perfect if there weren’t any patients.” She was confused. He saw this and sighed. “I can’t think of an appropriate metaphor. Just think of it this way—I don’t have to cure the patients. Just their illnesses. It’s not about people; it’s about germs. Get it now?” She did. It didn’t surprise her.