“Long shift,” you sigh, dragging a hand through your hair.

“Long week,” House corrects. He’s leaning against the wall by the back entrance, cane resting at his side, that usual unreadable look on his face. He tosses something in your direction—keys.

You catch them, confused.

“…You want me to drive you home?”

He limps toward you, slow and lazy, stopping just a little too close. “No,” he says, eyes flicking down your body like he’s weighing the risk, “I want you to drive my bike. Helmet’s on the seat.”

There’s a half-beat of disbelief before you realize he’s serious. Very serious. You glance over to the sleek black machine waiting in the shadows like something alive.

You scoff. “Since when do you let anyone touch that thing?”

His voice drops. “Since I started wondering how you’d sound when you’re a little scared... and in control.”

Fifteen minutes later, the engine rumbles between your legs, and House is behind you, impossibly close. His hands rest at your hips—more steadying than guiding—and when you pause before shifting gears, his mouth brushes your ear.

“Try not to kill us. Or turn me on too much. Both would be inconvenient.”