Part two

Much to her surprise, House appeared at her window the next night and the night after that and nearly every night for weeks. Neither of them said much. She opened the window and he climbed through and pressed his sweat-dampened skin to hers and they shared an hour or so of physical satisfaction, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the bed, and once against the wall. There were times it was urgent like that first night and there were times he slowed down and learned every inch of her. And when they were done, he'd leave the same way he arrived, through the window, with a simple "Goodnight" or "I'll see you at work," while she watched him jog off into the night.

She was sure that if he knew how much she felt for him, how deeply he touched her every time he, well... touched her, that he would run run run and never come back. So she kept her heart as guarded as possible, seeking only to make him feel that he was safe, that she wouldn't ask him for more than what he was giving. At work they went on as normal, as if they weren't involved in a torrid sexual affair, and as far as she knew, no one suspected anything.

Two weeks in, she began to worry about what would happen when it was over. Her heart was already too involved; she knew that. If he abruptly ended things, she wasn't sure she'd be able to continue working with him day after day. The longer it went on, the more her heart was at risk.

Three weeks in, the calls began. The first one came just as she finished her dinner. Some foolish part of her hoped it was House on the other end of the line, but instead, a deep voice tinged with anger and desperation, told her, "I know what you're doing. You have no right to judge anyone."

"Who is this?" she asked, but he just laughed mirthlessly and hung up.

She thought it was a joke or a wrong number, and though it disturbed her, she dismissed it. But when the second call came the very next night, she started to worry. By the third night, she called the police, who sent an officer to take a report, advised her to authorize a tap on her phone and told her to keep her doors and windows locked, which only made her think of House, and worry more.

Each call became more ominous, making her heart seize up with terror..

You think you're better than everyone else. You're acting like a whore.

Do you think he won't get hurt? He will. He'll get hurt if you keep this up. That's what women like you do.

Letting him climb into your window, Dr. Cameron? That's what whores do. Cheap sluts who have to hide what they're doing from the world.

I heard he got shot. Terrible thing that must have been. Be a shame if something like that happened again.

She hadn't slept properly since just after the calls began. The only time she felt safe in her own home was when House was there, sliding through her window, sliding her clothes off of her, sliding into her. He made her forget, for a brief time, that someone might be out there, someone might be watching. And then he'd go, and the fear would set in again. She'd think about calling him back, or telling him the next day at work, but she wanted to be strong. Didn't want him to think that she was needy or that she was putting on some damsel-in-distress act to get his attention. Nor did she want him doing something reckless that might get him hurt.

But every little noise set her heart to racing; even the crickets outside sounded sinister. She ran to and from her car each day, and kept a light on in each room, the curtains drawn tight against the outside world. Her closet doors remained open, so that she could be sure no one was hiding there, and she propped a chair beneath her doorknob whenever she was home to keep intruders out. But even that didn't erase the feeling that someone was out there, watching, biding his time until he decided when to strike. She began to feel like a prisoner in her own home.

The last call raised goosebumps on her skin and sent prickles of fear down her spine. Brought back the memory of House standing by the whiteboard as a madman put a bullet into his stomach and then his neck, while all she could do was press her palms against her own heart as if she could keep his blood, his life, from pouring out of him with her own two hands. As if her heart was his own, and his was hers, and as long as one continued beating, the other would as well. There was no way she would ever let anyone hurt him again, as long as it was in her power to prevent it. She knew she had to end this thing.

The next day, she found a moment to speak to him alone in his office, swallowing down her nerves and the lust she felt at seeing him so casual and confident and relaxed, with his legs propped up on his desk, and his long, capable fingers toying with his iPod. He had a way of making the most innocuous of activities look sexy, and now that she knew what he was capable of when it came to sex, she found it even harder to keep her focus on what she needed to do. But then she remembered the fear that someone out there wanted to take him from her. Because she loved him, she had to let him go.

Taking a deep breath, she began, "House? We need to talk."

He looked up, pulling his iPod buds from his ears and dropped his feet to the floor. Something about the brief panic in his eyes set her at ease a bit, and she plunged ahead, eager to assure him she wasn't there to ask him about his feelings.

"We have to stop," she said. "You can't keep coming... to my apartment."

"Why?" he asked, eyes suddenly narrowed, zoning in on her like a spotlight.

"Because... my heart is involved," she said. "It's been... fun. Really amazing fun. But if we keep it up, I'm going to get too attached and then... things will get complicated and I'll get hurt and then... I'll have to leave here." She looked at him only briefly, afraid he'd see in her eyes that she wasn't telling the whole truth. "I don't want to leave here," she finished, glancing at him again.

When he didn't speak, didn't respond, she sighed with both frustration and relief. "Okay then," she said, smiling as if it was all settled, and in her mind it was. With that, she strode out of the room.

to be continued