Mentally swearing at a yellow light, Foreman risked shooting through an intersection before the red. Amber might not think so but he was already driving faster than he normally did, slotting the car into holes in the traffic, which was thankfully light this close to nine o'clock. As far as he could tell she'd stopped paying attention to his driving entirely. She was staring out the passenger window, head tilted to nearly rest against the glass, lips downturned at the corners. She wasn't supposed to be this still, or speak so softly that Foreman barely heard her crack about wooing police officers. It didn't sound like she really believed it. In fact, if her tone hadn't been nearly monotone, Foreman suspected it would have been wavering.

He didn't think it was up to him. It seemed that nothing was, lately, least of all his own feelings which insisted on ambushing him at every turn. He didn't want to leave things in the same state they'd been last night when they'd left the hospital, and although House's knowing smirk was a factor in that, it was at the bottom of the list. Foreman went home every night to get away from House. He didn't want to feel that way about Amber, ever.

Shooting a sideways look at Amber, Foreman knew he couldn't let her walk into the hospital like this. Reserved, cut off and remote. "It's not up to me." He sighed and looked ahead again. They were nearly at the hospital. This conversation couldn't last much longer. Whether that was a good thing or not, he didn't know. He raised his eyebrows, as close to throwing up his hands at the situation as he could be while still gripping the steering wheel. "But if I can be right, I want to be right about you. I want to be right about us." His lips moved in something like a smile. "I never want to be right about House."