Cuddy had the vague feeling she was living somebody else's life. She and House arrived at the hotel—it was the off season, so it was easy to get a room—and she was suddenly this biker chick, with chunky boots and windblown cheeks and matted-down helmet hair. And it was late at night, and they were outlaws of sorts, on the run. The whole thing felt kind of seedy and reckless and disreputable, which, in a way, it was.

"I'm the Dean of Medicine at a prestigious hospital," she wanted to explain to the hotel clerk. "This is the first time I've ever been on a motorcycle in my entire life. And this guy, he's not even my boyfriend. This is not who I am. I'm nothing like this."

But she didn't. She just stood there, holding her helmet under her arm, idly leafing through the pamphlets for mineral springs and scuba diving that lined the front desk, acting like this sort of behavior was perfectly routine.

As for House? He hadn't stopped grinning since she'd agreed to go with him to the shore. He wasn't just happy, he was smugly happy. If the whole wedding had just been an elaborate ruse to get Cuddy to admit that she still had feelings for him, it had actually worked.

Of course, no one could've predicted the broken down car, the chance meeting on the side of the road, the forgotten cell phone. And yet here she was, being irresponsible again, swept up and away by the same cosmic force that seemed to rule so much of her adult life: Hurricane House.

#####

The room was your standard beach hotel fare—a queen-sized bed, a sitting area with a couch and cable TV, a small deck that overlooked the beach, a single-sink bathroom.

"Hi," House said with a smile, the minute they had closed the door behind them. He leaned in and kissed her.

She pushed him away.

"House, give me a second," she said, trying to collect her thoughts. "I need to call Julia. And I need to take a shower. I'm covered in the Jersey Turnpike."

"You can't call Julia because it's 1 a.m.," he said. "And the Jersey Turnpike has never looked better."

He went to kiss her again, and this time she kissed back, just a little. Of all the problems between them, sex had never been one of them. Their bodies were really perfectly calibrated to each other. In the real world, they didn't always see eye-to-eye, but they sure spoke the same language in bed.

And that's what worried her. She knew they were going to have sex, and probably lots of it, this weekend. She wanted it as badly as he did. But she didn't want to confuse that post-coital endorphin rush with real feelings, real progress. Otherwise, they'd just be back to square one. She'd broken up with House for a good reason—several of them, in fact.

"I have to call Julia in case there's an emergency," she said firmly, reaching into House's pocket and grabbing at his cell phone. His jeans were snug and it took a few second to get the phone out. He raised his eyebrows at her like this was foreplay.

"She needs to know how to reach me," Cuddy said, ignoring him.

She walked into the bathroom and glanced down at his phone.

"You have 21 missed calls from Wilson, by the way," she said, closing the door behind her and dialing.

"Julia," she whispered. "It's me."

"Lisa?" came the groggy response. "Where are you? Is everything okay? Is it Mom?"

"Mom's fine. I'm sorry to wake you. I just. . .I don't have my cell phone so I need you to write down a number. Do you have pen and paper?"

She heard a drawer open, a rustling.

"Yeah. . .where are you, Lisa? What's going on?"

"I'm. . .I'm at the shore," she said.

"The shore? With who?"

Cuddy sighed. There was no point in lying to her.

"I'm with House."

"House? Have you completely lost your mind?"

"A little bit. It's a long story. I'll tell you when I get back. Meanwhile, write this down"—she gave her House's phone number and the number of the hotel.

She could practically hear Julia's disapproval through the phone as she wrote down the numbers.

"How's Rachel?" Cuddy finally asked.

"She's great. She and the girls are having a blast," Julia said. "I just didn't realize that my taking her for the weekend was enabling a reunion between you and your fucked up ex."

"Gee, why don't you tell me how you really feel, Julia?" Cuddy snapped.

"I just call it like I see it," Julia replied.

Cuddy resented her sister's judgment—as always—but also knew that she was only looking out for her.

"I owe you one. Seriously. . ." she said. Then she lowered her voice even further. "Look, Julia, do me a favor and don't tell Rachel I'm here with House. I don't know where this is going—if anywhere. I don't want to complicate matters."

"Nobody could complicate matters any more than you already do yourself, sis," Julia said.

"I know Julia. I know. We'll talk more when I get back, okay? And thanks for …everything. Good night."

She put the phone down.

"I'm taking a shower, House, I'll be right out."

She slipped off her clothing, kicked off the heavy boots, turned on the water. The pounding hot water had a nice, salutary effect. She closed her eyes, breathed.

She felt a strong pair of hands around her waist.

"It's okay ma'am, I'm a doctor," House said.

She laughed, opened her eyes. She'd always loved his body—it was lean and lived in; she'd even come to appreciate the ugly scar on his leg—so few people had ever seen it, it was like a shared secret.

And of course, naked House, covered in dirt, made her think of the first time they'd made love, that night after Trenton. That night, there'd been a 20 year build-up. Tonight, it was just a little more than 2 weeks. Still, she felt a similar sense of urgency in her desire.

House took the soap from her, rubbed it in a slow, circular motion over her breasts and her stomach, her legs.

She reciprocated, rubbing his chest and his torso and his ass. He was dirtier than she was. She literally watched the dirt wash off his skin and circle the drain.

"Oh God, I've missed this," he said, kissing her slippery breasts. Then he kissed her neck, found her mouth. She rubbed up against him, enjoying the feel of his soapy, erect penis against her skin.

His hands circled her ass, he lifted her, as though preparing to enter her. There were times when House was so carried away he forgot that he was operating with only one good leg. This was clearly one of those times. She wanted him, but not enough to crack open her skull in the shower. She turned off the water.

"Let's do this right," she said, as though only a bed would do. They stepped out of the shower. Neither bothered to towel off. Cuddy wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to the bedroom.

"Now we can ride each other," she whispered.

#####

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. But not for long. He came in carrying a bag filled with a few essentials he'd picked up from a nearby convenience store: Toothbrushes, bottled water, a newspaper. He was also carrying coffee and muffins.

"Skim milk, no sugar, right?" he asked.

She had to laugh. In the year they'd dated, she couldn't remember a single time that he had woken up before her—let alone brought her breakfast in bed.

"Who are you and what have you done with House?" she joked.

"This is the new me," he said. "Greg House, model boyfriend."

He handed her the coffee, which she reluctantly took. She frowned.

"House, we're not back together," she said.

"Could've fooled me," he said—that smug grin again—and kissed her.

"No, I'm serious," she sat up straight in bed. "I don't know what this is yet. I refuse to get swept away here. I had a lot of very good reasons to end our relationship."

"I know. . .but I've changed," he said.

"I thought people didn't change," she said dryly.

"They don't. But they can change their behavior," he said.

"In the last two weeks, you've gone on a vicodin and hooker bender, jumped out of a hotel balcony, and came this close to marrying a mail-order whore. If that's change, I preferred you before."

"Sounds bad, when you put it like that. . ." he joked, trying to make light.

"How else should I put it?"

"That I need you in my life, otherwise I don't function properly," he said. "And . . ."

"And that is exactly why I broke up with you. I'm not your savior House. I have to put the needs of Rachel first. And I have my own needs, too."

"Let me finish. . ." House said. "And now that I know how much my life sucks without you, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that you never want to dump me again. Ergo, Greg House: model boyfriend."

She sighed. She didn't want to fight with him. He looked cute: He had bought a completely inappropriate T-shirt at the convenience store—it was a white shirt with a pink anthropomorphized bubble on it and blue writing that said Mr. Bubble.

"Where'd you get that ridiculous shirt," she laughed, playfully tapping his chest.

"Bargain bin! I got you one, too!" he reached into the plastic bag and pulling out a smaller version of the shirt. "In honor of how much fun it was to get clean last night."

"Thank you," she said. Damn him for being so cute. "Look House. I don't want to fight. Let's not label this as anything, okay? Let's just enjoy the weekend and have fun."

"That's all I ever wanted," he lied.

#####

They got joint massages later (House told Cuddy he was hoping for the "delayed happy ending") and then went to a little sea shanty for lunch, where they drank bad white wine and ate steamed clams and bought a whiskey for a crusty old man at the bar—"Wilbur" they had nicknamed him— who scowled at them before guzzling the down the drink.

"That guy's my hero," House said.

Both a little tipsy, and now fully in relaxed vacation mode, they made their way back to the hotel.

The minute they entered the room, Cuddy was all over him.

"Hold that thought," House said. "I should probably call Aunt Wilson."

Cuddy flopped on the bed, pouting a bit. She'd been thinking about ravaging him all day.

"Five minutes," he said. "I image Wilson is putting out an APB at this point."

House sat on the bed next to her, called his friend.

"Soooo. . . Did anyone marry Dominika last night?" he asked.

"You certainly didn't," Wilson grumbled. His voice registered a mixture of anger and relief.

"True."

"Where the hell are you, House? I was this close to putting your face on a milk carton."

"I'm at the shore," House said. "With Cuddy."

"Lisa Cuddy?"

"No Arlene Cuddy. You didn't notice the explosive sexual chemistry between us?"

As he spoke, Cuddy was unbuttoning his shirt from behind him, trying to distract him.

"Is this some sort of . . . abduction thing? Will there be a ransom note?" Wilson asked.

"Cuddy is here by her volition. Isn't that right, Cuddy?"

"Help me, Wilson!" Cuddy joked, kissing House's neck. "I'm his prisoner!"

"And there you have it," House said.

Cuddy bit his ear.

"Ouch!" he mouthed.

She gave him a mischievous grin.

"Sounds like you two are having fun," Wilson said.

"We are."

She was reaching into his already at-attention pants now, but he swatted her hand away. If she went any further, the possibility of coherent conversation with Wilson would be completely out the window.

"And is this a permanent thing?" Wilson was saying. "You guys going to become beach bums? Lifeguards by day, doctors by night?"

"We'll be back on Monday," House said. Ignoring his protests, Cuddy had managed to unbutton his jeans. She was now going for his boxers.

"House, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course," House said, leaning back a little and kicking his legs to facilitate her progress.

"Hang the fuck up," she mouthed, kissing his stomach.

"I'm trying," he mouthed back.

"Alright, be careful," Wilson said skeptically. "Because if this all ends badly, I don't want to find you on the edge of anymore balconies, okay?"

House was on the edge of something—but it sure as hell wasn't a balcony.

"It's not going to end badly," he managed to croak out, before hanging up and letting out a loud moan.

Apparently, there was going to be a happy ending after all.

#####

Cuddy took full advantage of House in model boyfriend mode and asked if he'd be up for visiting a nearby town that was famous for its antique shops.

"It would be my pleasure to watch you shopping for end tables and candlesticks that you don't buy," he said.

They took the bike—Cuddy had gotten pretty adept and getting on and off at this point, and she loved how solid and dependable House felt when they were riding. (Ironically, riding a motorcycle with House was one of the least dangerous things they did together.)

He tagged along dutifully as they roamed from store to store, hanging back sometimes, and watching her shop.

In one shop, a middle-aged woman in frumpy pink sweatshirt with a picture of a cat on it approached her and said knowingly: "You're lucky. My Arthur hasn't gone antiquing with me in years."

Cuddy laughed.

"He's just humoring me. He's bored to tears."

The woman looked over at House. "He doesn't seem bored. The way he looks at you." She smiled at House in a longing sort of way that said: My Arthur hasn't looked at me like that in years.

"You guys newlyweds?" she asked.

Cuddy snorted.

"Not even close," she said.

The woman shrugged. "Well, I'd say he's a keeper."

"Huh," Cuddy said vaguely, and she turned the brass candlestick she was looking at over to see the price.

"What did that lady want?" House asked later. "Did she want to recruit you into her army of cat-loving needlepoint enthusiasts?"

"Shut up, she was nice," Cuddy said. "She called you a keeper."

"I knew she was a woman of discerning taste," House said.

"Ha ha."

After shopping, she called Julia and asked to speak to Rachel. She was hoping that in Rachel's rush of stories of her weekend adventures—the petting zoo, a pizza place with a real-live clown, a movie with talking penguins—she would forget to ask Cuddy where she was. But Rachel never missed a beat.

"Mama, where are you?" she asked. "You sound different."

"This isn't my cell phone. I'm on vacation," Cuddy said. "With . . . a friend."

"Which friend, mama?"

Cuddy hesitated.

"No one you know, sweetie."

She was glad that House was out of earshot and couldn't hear her lie.

That night, they bought some cheese and crusty bread and wine and laid out a picnic on the beach.

House made a fire, and they sat with the blanket draped over them, looking at the stars.

Cuddy put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. There was no denying it, it had been a wonderful day—a wonderful weekend so far. House kissed the top of her head.

"I'm so happy," he said, almost to himself.

#####

House wasn't always the best sleeper—a toxic combination of leg pain and a brain that never shut off often kept him awake, but tonight he was sleeping like a baby, his arm wrapped around her. It was Cuddy who couldn't sleep.

They were leaving the beach tomorrow. And then what? Were they back together?

"Once and for all, let's see if we can make this thing work," he had said to her.

But this wasn't the real test at all, was it? It was easy to be in love when it was just the two of them, a vacation from reality, without Rachel, without the hospital, without any of the messy banalities of everyday life.

But what had really changed since she'd made the painful decision to leave him?

If anything, he had lived downto her expectations since the breakup. He spiraled so quickly out of control—in a devastating display of suicidal debauchery and remorseless sadism. Could she really allow Rachel to be around such a volatile man?

And being around House made her do reckless things, too, like lie on witness stands, and break wedding engagements, and take impromptu motorcycle trips to the shore. (Even lying to Rachel on the phone earlier made her feel ill at ease. She had never lied to her daughter like that before.)

But . . .but. . . reaching into the plastic bag for a bottle of water, she had found a stuffed duck. The famously cranky and misanthropic Dr. Gregory House had bought a corny little gift for Rachel at the convenience store. This was the sort of thing he made fun of Wilson for doing.

She looked at him, watched the rise of fall of his chest as he slept. Every time she moved, his arm resettled on her—even his subconscious craved her nearness.

She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She wished things didn't have to be so hard.

#####

He woke up the next morning and she was gone from the bed. He didn't even think twice about it. He figured she had probably snuck out for an early morning run. She didn't like rubbing his face in the things they couldn't do together.

Then he saw the note on the pillow. Alarmed, he sat up, read it.

I'm sorry.
I love you, but I just can't do this.
-C

He got out of bed so quickly, his leg buckled. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. He limped frantically to the door, and regarded the empty hallway with dread.

"Cuddy!" he screamed.

But she was already gone.