Turned away from the lights, Amber’s face was in shadow, but even so, Foreman couldn’t have missed the way she stiffened when he made clear what he felt. Her retort came sharply, immediate and defensive, and, no matter what she’d promised, angry as hell on her own behalf, as if he’d impugned her honour by pointing out the very trait that she’d claimed to be so proud of. “Trust doesn’t change because the situation does,” he said. As far as he was concerned, it was exactly the same thing, and it got personal as soon as Amber decided to take her ruthless streak out on him. How was he supposed to know where she drew the line? His family was personal, but his career was fair game; there were a hell of a lot of things that fell into the gray area between them, and Foreman didn’t want to find out too late that Amber didn’t mind exposing something he wanted to keep to himself. What more do you want me to say? An apology, that had been all. Either in words or by Amber showing she had even the slightest hint of regret. Well, he wasn’t going to get it. “I said I was sorry,” Foreman said heavily. “I’ve promised to listen. I’ve promised to try and do better. You’ll do the same thing again if you get the chance, and you don’t care how it makes me feel." All he'd ever wanted was to see some sign that Amber was willing to meet him halfway. "So maybe you see why I’m having a hard time trusting you.”
He wanted to turn away, but her hand on his arm stopped him. His chest felt tight, and every instinct was telling him to get the hell away before she could hurt him again. End it, so that he wouldn’t be vulnerable, so that she could screw with House’s patients all she wanted and it wouldn’t feel like a fuck-you aimed straight at him. Lips thinned, eyebrows drawn together in a pained frown, he nodded at Amber’s words. He wished he could believe her, as easily and as simply as he had at first, when it seemed like such a fucking good idea to spill his guts to her, like a kid running crying to mommy about how unfair the world was. The world wasn’t fair, and by now he should’ve damn well noticed. He only had himself to blame. Put yourself out there, and the world would aim a sucker-punch for the pit of your stomach. That was all there was to it. “Okay,” he said, exhausted. He wasn’t going to argue with Amber about whether she meant it or not, or what kind of value her promises had. What else was he supposed to say? Thank her for a reassurance he shouldn’t have to have begged for?
Scrubbing a hand down his face, massaging at his closed eyes, Foreman felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Aching all through. If this was the end of their fight, why did he feel worse than when they’d been yelling at each other? “You shouldn’t have to pick between me and your job,” he said. “It's not fair. I don't want to do that to you." He tightened his jaw, hating how hard this was to say. "I thought we could make it work, have both. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe part of me wanted to shove it in House’s face that people don’t have to be miserable. I guess I wanted you too much to be smart about it.” He swallowed, forcing himself to meet Amber’s eyes steadily, part of him still hating that he wanted to hold her but she’d flinch away from his touch. “Look, it’s getting late. If you don’t want to go for coffee, I’d understand.”
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He wanted to turn away, but her hand on his arm stopped him. His chest felt tight, and every instinct was telling him to get the hell away before she could hurt him again. End it, so that he wouldn’t be vulnerable, so that she could screw with House’s patients all she wanted and it wouldn’t feel like a fuck-you aimed straight at him. Lips thinned, eyebrows drawn together in a pained frown, he nodded at Amber’s words. He wished he could believe her, as easily and as simply as he had at first, when it seemed like such a fucking good idea to spill his guts to her, like a kid running crying to mommy about how unfair the world was. The world wasn’t fair, and by now he should’ve damn well noticed. He only had himself to blame. Put yourself out there, and the world would aim a sucker-punch for the pit of your stomach. That was all there was to it. “Okay,” he said, exhausted. He wasn’t going to argue with Amber about whether she meant it or not, or what kind of value her promises had. What else was he supposed to say? Thank her for a reassurance he shouldn’t have to have begged for?
Scrubbing a hand down his face, massaging at his closed eyes, Foreman felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Aching all through. If this was the end of their fight, why did he feel worse than when they’d been yelling at each other? “You shouldn’t have to pick between me and your job,” he said. “It's not fair. I don't want to do that to you." He tightened his jaw, hating how hard this was to say. "I thought we could make it work, have both. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe part of me wanted to shove it in House’s face that people don’t have to be miserable. I guess I wanted you too much to be smart about it.” He swallowed, forcing himself to meet Amber’s eyes steadily, part of him still hating that he wanted to hold her but she’d flinch away from his touch. “Look, it’s getting late. If you don’t want to go for coffee, I’d understand.”