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Summary
House can feel Wilson’s mind wandering to the door, the clothes, the car, to House’s ringing phone still in the pocket of his jacket.
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” House mumbles, because like hell he’s going to pull away from Wilson’s lips.
Wilson makes a protest, though his voice is breathless and renders his argument weak. “But my coat, it’s a thousand dollars—”
“Tomorrow,” House hisses into his mouth, dragging him closer by the shoulders.