Rain’s coming down hard when the three of you duck into the little shop. Wilson disappears into the fiction aisle. House mutters something about mold and then follows you anyway.

You find a worn copy of a love story. House leans in over your shoulder. “Planning to read it out loud, or just blush at the good parts?”

Wilson pops up behind a shelf. “I better be cast as the brooding lead.”

“Of course you’ll be the lead, baby.” you hum

Later, you’re all crammed on the couch—House’s head in your lap, Wilson reading dramatically, voices and all.