You’re still wearing the wrong expression.

The one that says I’m fine, while dried blood clings to your sleeve and your scrubs are rumpled from the code. The gurney creaks softly as you shift, trying not to wince. The ER’s too bright, too sterile. And you can’t stop replaying the moment you jumped in—your hands on the defibrillator, the flatline, the intern yelling, the attending who wasn’t fast enough.

And then—

The door opens hard enough to hit the wall.

Wilson.

His tie is loose. His jaw is clenched. There’s a red mark on his hand where he’s been gripping his coat too tightly.

He doesn’t say a word at first.

Just walks in. Stops dead when he sees you sitting there, trying to act like it’s just another day at Princeton-Plainsboro.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is low, cracked like something tearing under pressure.

“I saved her,” you say quietly.

“You could’ve died,” he snaps. “The paddles weren’t clear. There was blood on the floor. You weren’t even—” His voice falters, eyes darting to your shoulder. “You weren’t wearing gloves.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, softer:

“I’ve seen people do reckless things, but you—”

He takes two steps closer, and you see it now. Not anger. Not exactly. It's fear. Deep, raw, unfiltered fear etched in every line of his face.

“I’m not mad,” he says, almost to himself. “I’m just—God, if something had happened—”