House stayed silent, dropping his gaze to the floor when Foreman asked if he should start analyzing this. The fact that Foreman wasn't was interesting. Foreman, who always covered his ass and looked before he leaped. House either was, in fact, that charming or sex made Foreman a moron. It made House wonder, but not ask--never ask--what Foreman's brain would tell him once it kicked in, after the sex stopped being new. When Foreman spoke again, House snapped his eyes back up to Foreman's face. The thought of Foreman ending this made his stomach twist, and, God, he hated that. Hated that he even gave a damn about it. "Nope," House said, shaking his head once.

He wouldn't ask Foreman what had changed, what had made Foreman decide that House was suddenly a worthwhile risk to his reputation; it was a pathetic, needy question. It was bad enough that the question was nagging at him, and it would be even worse if he actually spoke it. There were times when pushing Foreman would get him what he was after, but House had a feeling that this time, if he pushed, it would encourage Foreman to dump him for his own good, pursue more job interviews, end up in L.A., and leave House in the Princeton dust. Again. No, he'd dig for answers another way, keep it in the back of his mind for later. He was interested, but he could wait.

Without any explanation, House turned and left the room, returning to Foreman's living room to stretch across the couch. He turned on the TV to make his brain shut up while he absently reached for his Vicodin in his pocket and threw one back.