You’re standing beside Wilson, staring in disbelief at the sleek, black motorcycle parked in House’s usual spot.

You blink. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he definitely did,” Wilson sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s either a midlife crisis or a cry for attention.”

“Both,” you murmur, watching as House walks toward you, helmet under his arm, sunglasses on, smirking like he’s about to star in a bad action movie.

“Well?” he says, coming to a dramatic stop. “Try to contain your arousal.”

“You bought a motorcycle,” you deadpan.

“Correction: I rescued it from a life of boredom.”

Wilson crosses his arms. “You have a bad leg, a bad attitude, and absolutely no regard for traffic laws. You’re one pothole away from being a cautionary tale.”

House shrugs. “Then I’ll die sexy.”

You glance at the bike, then back at him. “Do you even know how to ride it?”

“I watched a YouTube video,” he says.

“Oh God,” Wilson mutters.

You step closer, slipping your hands around House’s arm. “At least wear a helmet. And if you’re going to be reckless, don’t be alone.”

He eyes you for a moment—gauging whether you’re going to fight him on this. But then his hand slides over yours, briefly. “Not planning to be.”

Wilson groans. “You two are enabling each other. I’m outnumbered.”

You and House grin at each other.

And as he straddles the bike and revs the engine, you lean into Wilson and whisper, “Admit it. He looks hot.”

Wilson glares. Then sighs. “…He does.”

House peels out of the lot like a teenager with something to prove. You and Wilson just stand there, shaking your heads, completely exasperated—and completely in love with that stubborn idiot.