Foreman took the stairs two at a time, hoping to burn his anger out of his body before he got to the fourth floor. House would probably be following him, keep picking at him, keep mocking--laugh at Foreman for getting hard at House's story, or for thinking that Foreman was anywhere as memorable as Jake. Foreman threw himself down into the desk chair in the conference room, tensing preemptively against the moment the elevators opened and House stalked out.

After a few minutes, when it didn't happen, Foreman realized Cuddy must have stopped House and demanded an explanation. He'd have a few minutes of reprieve, anyway. Long enough to take out some work and look busy, even though he couldn't stop thinking about what the hell had happened in the car. House had proved him wrong, in more than one way. Shown that he would perform, in public, but not for Foreman. Shown that Foreman might matter now, but he wasn't worth much in the long run. Foreman had had similar thoughts, gauging House against other relationships he'd had in the past and not seeing much promise for the future, but at least he hadn't told House every last fucking detail of his sex life. Foreman wasn't ready to appreciate the fact that he might know more about House now than anyone at the hospital--Wilson included. All he could see was that House had fucked himself, right next to him, thinking of someone else.

Foreman shook his head and pushed the thoughts away. He was not going to let House affect his work. That much they'd agreed on, and Foreman wasn't going to be the one to fuck it up. If House wasn't coming upstairs, if Cuddy had kept him in the clinic, then Foreman wouldn't have to face him. Not now, and not any time soon.