“Why are we listening to Swedish death metal?” Wilson asks, squinting at the GPS like it personally betrayed him.

House, sunglasses on indoors and outdoors alike, taps the steering wheel to the beat. “It keeps me awake. And it keeps you from monologuing about snack portion sizes.”

You lean forward from the back seat, chin on House’s shoulder. “Pretty sure the death metal’s about goat sacrifice.”

House shrugs. “Romantic.”

Wilson, dry as toast: “You’re never picking the music again.”

“Too late,” House says cheerfully. “I’m driving. Driving means power. I’m basically a god.”

“You’re going forty-five on a highway,” you point out. “You’re a slow god.”

House throws you a look in the rearview mirror. “And yet you still sleep with me.”

Wilson nearly chokes on the iced coffee he insisted on stopping for.