When they arrived back at House's place, Cameron took a Percocet and carefully changed into the oversized nightshirt she'd brought from her apartment. Her stitches pulled at her skin as she lay down on House's bed and covered herself with a comforter that smelled like him. Minutes later, she fell asleep.

She woke up four hours later (the clock read 2:48) with her heart racing, maybe the result of a bad dream she didn't remember. A sharp pain ripped through the incision on her stomach and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out. She reached for the prescription bottle and glass of water beside the bed.

Realizing that she'd need the Zantac she'd left in the living room – the stabbing sensation in her right breast was obviously the result of post-op acid reflux – she slowly rose and shuffled into the living room, where House was stretched out on the couch.

He sat up suddenly when she swallowed a Zantac. "Are you in pain?" he asked, examining her face in the dark.

"I just took another Percocet."

He pulled back the blanket that was covering him. Standing, he linked arms with her. "C'mon," he said, "I'll help you."

"Try not to fall," she said drowsily, noticing how he dragged his leg when he wasn't using his cane.

He walked her to the bedroom and didn't take his eyes off her until she was lying down. "You're very attentive when you're interested," she commented.

"You shouldn't have to go through this," he said.

She patted the right side of the bed. "Stay here." She was already half-asleep. "I don't want to wake up alone again."

He complied, and they faced each other.

"House," Cameron said, "tell me something. The last time I was here, did you want me to stay?"

"You stayed the night."

"You wanted me to stay, didn't you? I was here because I needed to get my mind off of Chase, but you thought I still loved you."

Strangely, tenderly, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Doesn't matter," was all he said.

"I'm going away after this summer."

"Where?"

"Some big rectangular state in the middle of the country where I can open up an allergy clinic."

House reached over and lay a hand on Cameron's lower back. "When your husband died, did you also talk about packing up and leaving?"

"No."

"You're lying. Don't run away because you're grieving."

"I have every right to run away."

"What I'm about to tell you never leaves the room," he said.

"What?"

"The first time I woke up after my seizure, I saw Wilson standing in the doorway. He looked at me, looked at the ground, and walked away. I didn't want to have to live knowing I deserved to be hated. So I closed my eyes and hoped after that I'd be free from pain and free from consciousness. Every time I woke up again, I was disappointed. Then you leaned over me that one day with your vomit-breath and I thought I might be able to live with myself."

"You mean you focused your attention on another person and it saved your life?"

"Right." His voice cracked slightly. "But I failed you anyway."

"This isn't failure," Cameron said. "This is genetics. It can't be failure … I just wish you had told me earlier about what you were thinking after your seizure."

"Morals, morals," he whispered, kissing her forehead before she fell asleep.