She looks back when she should be looking forward, to the goal she's about to cross. She looks back, and it stains House's memory. He pulls forward a second after she does, skidding across the finish line and swinging his bike around to drag the wheels to a stop along with the brakes. He whips his helmet off when his inertia stops, slamming it into the ground a second later, like it's a football he's just run a touchdown on. He's lost.

But he's not angry.

He's just more awake than he's been in weeks, and House keeps the bike clutched between his knees, his hands on the handlebars holding it steady, as he lets his heavy breaths rock his body back and forth.

"You cheated," he says, as if he doesn't blame her. If he'd wanted a fair match, he'd have found some referees. He'd been looking for an excuse, even though he didn't need one.