It was well after 8pm when Cuddy heard the motorcycle pull into her driveway. Only one man she knew rode a motorcycle. She didn't wait by the door, instead she padded to the kitchen, put her empty wine glass in the sink, and listened for the knock.

She opened the door and found him leaning on the cane, looking lost and angry, just like the first night he showed up on her doorstep. He was even wearing the same shirt.

"The number was disconnected," House said without emotion.

"Are you lying?" she asked, and watched as the anger in his face drained away, replaced with a tired scowl.

"No."

The regarded each other for a few moments, then she held the door open and watched as he limped to his favorite spot on the couch. A dark cloud hung over the room. It was a mistake to try to get him to deal with an issue he was nowhere near ready to deal with. It took eight years to let go of Stacy. This was something he was just beginning to see and understand. She had been stupid to think he would dive head-first into it and not open up old wounds. She should have kept her mouth shut.

House relaxed back into the cushion and closed his eyes. Cuddy joined him, eventually resting her hand on his shoulder. He pushed it away, not wanting to be touched, but that wasn't going to stop her this time. Hand on shoulder again, pushed away again. Her hand grabbed his arm. He tried to pull away. Cuddy wasn't going to let go, she held on tight with dogged determination, nails digging into his wrist. A frigid stare came from his blue eyes that she matched with her own.

"She left me with nothing. Nothing," he said in a dull, flat voice. "She took everything that belonged to her, every scrap of paper, every book, every videotape she ever bought. When I went home I couldn't believe it. It was like she had never lived there."

"Did she even say goodbye?"

"No. Couldn't be bothered to do that. She didn't even leave a note. She just disappeared."

"I would never do that to you," Cuddy told him. His arm was still tense as her nails dug in deeper. Finally, he wrenched it away. Little red half-moons stood out on his skin.

"I know."

"If you know then why are you still convinced it's going to happen?"

"I can't help it. I just can't help it."

"Yes, you can, Greg."

"No, I can't."

"Don't talk like that. Yes, you can."

"That's real easy for you to say, Lisa. You think you understand, you want to understand, but you don't have the first clue. And for your sake I hope you never do."

"Why not?"

"Just take my word for it. I wouldn't wish it my worst enemy's dog."

That was the end of it. Usually Cuddy couldn't get House to shut up, but that night she couldn't pry a dozen more sentences out of him to save her life. The taciturn moods hadn't surfaced in while. She was concerned, but that concern ebbed a little when he didn't object to her curling up against him and running her fingers through his hair. It always calmed House if nothing else, and that night was no different. After a while the doctor was falling asleep on the couch. Cuddy had to look at two different clocks before being convinced it was only 10:30pm.

"Greg," she said quietly, but still managed to startle him a bit. "Go lay down." She wasn't about to let him leave, as tired as he was.

"'Kay," he muttered, and stumbled to the bedroom without looking back or saying another word.

Ten minutes was all she could wait. Peeking around the door she saw clothes puddled on the floor, the cane hanging on the bedpost and House sprawled on top of the covers, sound asleep. He was wearing the Jim Morrison shirt.

Ten minutes after that Cuddy joined with the Ramones shirt and a spare blanket. Around 4 o'clock she woke up freezing. Her lover had rolled over and took the blanket with him. As she was trying to burrow under the comforter she looked over and realized House was still in deep sleep after five and a half hours. Cuddy fell back into dreamland with a small, satisfied smile.