Wilson helps you first, gently guiding your arms through your shirt, fingers brushing your skin with careful warmth. “Let me,” he says softly, buttoning it up like it’s second nature.

House tosses you your pants with a smirk. “Put these on before he writes you poetry.”

You catch them, laughing, but he steps in anyway, hands warm on your hips as he helps you pull them up—his touch quiet, steady.

“You two always like this in the morning?” you tease.

“Only when we’re in love,” Wilson murmurs against your cheek.

House rolls his eyes, but kisses you anyway. “Don’t get used to it.”

You already are.