It couldn't have been more than a minute before House managed to get Wilson out of the bedroom, but it felt like a fucking eternity. Foreman could hear their voices fading, and he was not going to stand in the goddamn closet all fucking day. He already felt like a moron for agreeing to hide in the first place, although he couldn't think what else he might have done. When he tried to imagine the look on Wilson's face if he'd seen Foreman in bed with House, his brain automatically pushed away the image. He couldn't think of a single more humiliating situation. The closet just barely qualified as "better", but even so, Foreman wasn't going to keep hiding. He fumbled in the dark for the doorknob and turned it slowly, peering out to make sure that Wilson and House really had left. He could hear them in the living room, but at this point, House had to be pushing Wilson out of the apartment. Foreman flipped the covers back and found his pants, crumpled and sweaty. Disgusting, but he wanted to be wearing something, so he pulled them on.

He nearly panicked again when his briefcase came crashing in from the hallway. Shit, shit, shit. Wilson must have seen it, along with whatever other evidence of his presence Foreman had left in the rest of House's apartment. He couldn't remember anything, but he wasn't exactly thinking straight. Fuming, Foreman crossed his arms and waited for House to come back, after he'd shoved Wilson the hell out.