Foreman expected House to follow him off the elevator, but the fact that he didn't wasn't surprising in the least. He--no, more accurately, his dick--wanted another chance to corner House in the elevator, wanted not to hold back this time and press right up against him. Kiss him, hard, make demands Foreman knew House would answer if he just pushed far enough. He was impatient as hell, a sudden, restless desire driving him. He glanced over his shoulder, but the elevator doors had closed again. Foreman had no idea if House would run from the hospital entirely, or sneak around some back way in order to get his stuff. House hadn't been dressed for the weather, and if he was riding his bike--stupid thing to do in November--then he didn't have his helmet, either.

Not that it was Foreman's business, no matter how hard he was apparently trying to make it his business. Foreman kept ramming himself headfirst into that brick wall. One lay, no matter how good, shouldn't have him twisted in knots like this, wanting more. Wendy leaving hadn't felt like this. It was just--Foreman knew there was something there, he knew House wasn't indifferent, and the fact that House insisted on acting against everything Foreman had learned about how goddamn stubborn he was, it just felt wrong that House would give up on something he hadn't even tried. Give up on Foreman.

Fuck. Nothing was making sense, nothing really had since Foreman had come back to Princeton. He pushed open the door to the conference room, slung on his suit jacket and his coat, and grabbed his briefcase. If House was gone, he was gone, and Foreman couldn't stop him. If Foreman used the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, it wasn't because he thought he could catch up. It wasn't like he'd grab House in the clinic lobby, have it out in front of the nurses and Cuddy. If he was hurrying, it was only because he wanted to get home.