Foreman's outburst, his glare, was enough to make House grin--it helped that the grin would probably do more to piss Foreman off. Despite the highway-speeds and semi-reckless driving, House knew he'd been in control of the car and wouldn't run off the road on his own, like Foreman seemed to believe. Hilarious as hell to make Foreman believe it, though, and God, it always felt so good to let loose on a road--way better on a motorcycle--and feel that adrenaline. House threw the car into park and revved the engine, just for fun, to burn Foreman's fuel, and said, "Technically it's your fault for staying in the first place. If Wilson found me alone in bed, it wouldn't have been any different from any other morning I decided not to answer my damn phone."

House was about to throw the car back into drive--the light had just changed--and drive slightly less recklessly to Foreman's place. The long way. But Foreman reached over before he could stop him, turned off the car, and took his keys. Now it was his turn to glare. "Keep away? In a car? This would have been much more fun back at the apartment," he said, and lunged across the seat to try to reach for the keys. He wasn't budging. If Foreman thought he was going to give up the driver's seat just because he'd taken the keys, he was in for a surprise.