The ER smells like antiseptic and adrenaline. Nurses rush past, voices rising. The moment Wilson’s pager went off with your name, he dropped everything.

You’d been in a car crash—nothing fatal, the nurse said—but there was blood on your face when you were wheeled in. You were laughing it off, trying to act fine, but then you saw him.

Wilson stops cold at the sight of you on the gurney. One side of your face scraped, dried crimson on your jaw, a bruise already blooming at your temple. His eyes flick down to your shaking hands.

He crosses the room fast, unblinking. “You're okay?” he asks, breath short.

You nod. “Just a scratch, really—”

But he’s already beside you, one gloved hand cupping the side of your uninjured face, eyes scanning every inch. His voice is a whisper, almost angry in how tightly it's controlled. “You have no idea how bad that looked on the page.”

You smile, weak. “Didn’t know you’d come down personally.”

He doesn’t move his hand. “Of course I did.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and the look in his eyes is unguarded for once—deep, warm, wrecked.