He may not mind, but Cameron doesn't live on Vicodin.

She's lurking in the doorway with two mugs, both containing coffee goodness, his having a bit of sugar added to it (though not nearly as much as hers). Her eyes are focused on his desk instead of his face when she asks, "Do you want to move into my house?" There's a brief silence where her stomach lurches as her mind rifles through the many ways that question could be taken. She amends with: "I mean, I have an extra room and your piano is already there. Plus, that hotel you're in can't be all that comfortable." She blinks up at him, then back down to the coffee mugs in her hands.