I love you.
The three most frightening, dangerous words of the English dictionary.
He was not afraid. He was just…fidgeting.
He had said that before. To his mother. To Cindy, in fourth grade (she handed him a cookie. He was quite satisfied with the outcome.). To Stacy. Even to Cuddy, a long time ago, back in Michigan (he was drunk, she was beautiful. She left the day after. The next time they met, there was Stacy, and her job, and his job, and his leg. Drunken days of I Love You's long forgotten.)
They had a date. He was two hours late.
If he needed courage, he would've taken a good shot of something strong (deathly so, possibly); but he needed to think; in short, he needed beer. And Wilson (Damn him for being at a conference when he needed his girlish tips; just…tell her. Said the man thrice-divorced, thank you very much.)
All of a sudden, red stilettos, a pair of amazing leg constricted in a short, tight skirt appeared in his view, taking place to the spot next to his own at the bar counter. He acknowledged her presence with a nod. Lisa Cuddy smiled to the bartender.
'Martini, please.' – a pause. – 'You're late. The waiter hit on me. Twice.'
'I'm always late. And you're dressed like a hooker.'
She took a sip of her drink, slowly. Her white neck lightly shaking. You minx.
'Thank you, you're not bad yourself.'
They shared a comfortable silence for a while, taking pleasure at each other company, drinking, thinking, arms randomly brushing.
'House.'
He kissed her. It was mellow, deliberately slow, you bastard, he was provoking her. She grabbed him by the collar, biting his lower lip. They parted, she was flushed, her lips were swollen, her eyes darker. He smirked.
'I love you.'
She smiled, and took something out of her purse.
'Here, have a cookie.'
Trust Lisa Cuddy not to use ammo he gives her when he's drunk, he thinks, while they leave the bar, his hand on the small of her back.