Written for starhawk2005. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, gal!

A/N: A continuation of Everytime. House, MD is the property of Fox.

Your offer of "no strings attached" sex with Chase was born of stress and the need to feel and be felt by another human being.

You were tired of waiting for the impossible, and House was beyond impossible. House had also made it feel impossible for you to throw yourself into any romantic relationship.

"Cameron, I love you."

(You felt ruined.)

You had considered other options, like calling for stud service, or taking some friends' offers to set you up with their friends, or simply dredging up the courage to pick up strangers at a bar. Ultimately, being a doctor brings so many concerns where socialization is involved. You didn't want to get the shit scared out of you again at the possibility of picking up HIV with the first and last ideas, and the last three blind dates were certified disasters.

The offer you made Chase solved your two biggest problems—to destress and feel, just for a while, that you are desired.

(That you are not so damaged.)

Chase had already fulfilled the second need when he didn't feel overly offended at your cold, blunt assessment that you wouldn't fall in love with him. Your feelings are complicated enough.

(He will do. For now.)

--

Fast forward to tonight.

You are alone and sipping something sweet and alcoholic inside a bar near the hospital. Only a handful of people populate the bar at 10 PM.

You broke it off with Chase the moment he told you he wanted more from this arrangement. Tuesdays were getting tedious these days, as they are the time of the week he would attempt to remind you of his availability.

It was sweet and a bit pitiful. Cuddy had been right; it would end in either happiness or in bitterness. Either way, you secretly agree that breaking it off with Chase was for the best.

And you want to distance yourself from House, even if the two of you weren't close enough to begin with.

"What, no boytoy in tow?"

(Well, speak of the devil…)

You just sip your drink slowly while the object of your (plummeting and misplaced) affections takes the seat next to yours. You wait patiently while he orders a Scotch before setting your drink and some money down on the counter. "I'm done," you say tiredly.

(You don't want this—not while your defenses are down.)

You slide off the bar stool and turn to leave when he says, "So, who's next on your hit list? Wilson? Foreman? Ed from Accounting?"

(It sounds forced, but you've stopped paying attention to the "little details". You're the one hurting, damn it!)

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply.

"No one. Hope you're happy."

(And it is all he's going to get.)

---

At home, you drop your bag on the bed and head for the shower. The spray is a bit hotter than what you're used to, but at the moment, you do not care.

After showering, you dry off and wrap yourself in the thick red towel. When you open the door to your bedroom, the first thing that draws your attention is a blood red rose in the middle of your bed. You move closer and pick up the flower, inhaling its perfume and touching its petals. It is representative of everything romantic and hued to show deep, passionate love.

(How cheesy.)

You open your eyes when the door closes behind you. You turn around and find House leaning on the closed door, looking at you.

(Possessively.)

"How did you get in?" you ask tersely.

He answers by putting his hand in his jacket pocket and fishing out a key. "You left this on your doorframe," he explains. "And you really should wear that to work every day. Got one in white?"

(You notice that his eyes are focused on what the towel isn't covering.)

You ignore the quip about the towel and raise the rose towards him. "I can't accept this."

He gives you a calculating look and pushes himself off the door. "Because of Chase?"

You shake your head. "Because I can't tell if you're being sincere or not," you say softly. "And you should leave."

(Before it's too late.)

Against common sense, you move towards House so that you can personally return the rose to him. He raises his hand, but instead of taking the rose, he grasps your wrist and pulls you towards him. His other arm reaches out to wrap around your waist and press you flush against him. You drop the rose and relish this contact, while you hold on to a tiny shred of pride when you refrain from putting your head on his chest.

(Or sneaking your hand underneath his shirt.)

He bends his head down to whisper "Try this for sincere," in your ear before he turns your face and kisses you.

You kiss him back fervently, wrapping your hands around his neck. You are barely cognizant of being herded towards your bed or of the towel falling off your body, because you are too aware of his hands roaming over your body, of his mouth suckling on your breasts, of the hardness between his legs.

Before he thrusts into you for the first time, you are also aware of the words which fall from his lips, "Took us long enough."

(Too true.)