James Wilson doesn't run in hospitals. Not unless it's you. So when he heard about the crash, when someone muttered that House was pulled from the wreckage with someone else — a “young female intern, working in oncology” — his chest tightened.

And now he's here. White lights. Trauma doors swinging open. And suddenly… you. Blood crusted near your temple. A collar around your neck. Monitors screaming. You're not moving.

God, no. He takes one step forward, then two — he's not sure if he's walking or floating or crumbling in on himself. Because that’s you. His intern. His brightest. His test subject in life, medicine, humanity.

You, who rolled your eyes at his protein bar lunches and matched his sarcasm without fear. You, who didn’t ask permission to care about patients — or about him. You who, in all your impossible warmth, carved out a space in his chest before he realized it was happening.

“Wilson—” a nurse tries to stop him. He keeps walking. Your eyes flutter once. Barely. Then nothing.

He wants to shout. To scream. But all that comes out is your name, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks. “ {{user}} Don’t—” his voice shakes, “Don’t you dare.”

They wheel you past, into surgery. And he just stands there, frozen in the hallway. Watching the doors close. And all he can think is: It should’ve been anyone else. Not you.

Not the one person who made him feel like maybe his previous ruined weddings weren't the end of his story. Not the one who left coffee on his desk and called him out when he smiled too tightly. Not the one who made him laugh when no one else could.

You can’t leave.