"Hey!" Foreman didn't know whether to laugh or snatch at his soup bowl when Amber made off with it. Wrestling here wasn't as carefree as it had been in Amber's kitchen. The danger that they'd both end up with food all over them was a lot more embarrassing than if he'd dumped his omelette and Amber's dishes on the floor. Seeing Amber's tongue sweep out to catch a drip of soup, Foreman leaned over impulsively and kissed her, not meaning it to go anywhere, but making it deep enough that he caught a hint of the flavour from Amber's mouth. "Better like that anyway," he said, letting her keep the bowl and pulling on his dignity, as if it was beneath his notice to play tug of war. And, more quietly, before he sat back in his chair, he said, "And no regrets."

He found himself nodding along with her story as he finished his sandwich, and he returned her smirk when she boasted. "I finished up my residency program in L.A. and they weren't hiring for anything above mid-level positions," he said. "It was a good hospital, and I liked working for Marty Hamilton, but it would've gotten old pretty fast, doing Glasgow scales all day. Barely any surgeries, mostly palliative stuff once we had a diagnosis." He raised his eyebrows, trying to figure out his own feelings about his three years with House. Even if he didn't consider the fact that if he hadn't been here, he never would have met Amber, the positives outweighed the negatives. Getting fired sucked, but at his age, he wouldn't even be in the running for a department head position in neurology. Not everybody could be as lucky as Wilson. Even being the best, most doctors didn't get considered until they were approaching fifty. There was still a lot of time left for him to make his mark young. "Best case so far?"