There’s blood on the window. His own. Maybe someone else's. The metal groans like it's mourning, and his pulse is thudding in his ears louder than the sirens.

He can’t breathe. He’s still on the bus. He remembers that. The heat, the smoke, the pressure in his skull—rising like the tide. Something happened. Something important. There’s a woman. Someone beside him. Amber? Cameron ? Lisa ? No—no, something’s wrong. Those names don’t feel right. Don’t sting right.

His head drops back against the seat and all he can see are fragments. Hands. A voice. A laugh. That stubborn way you always argue with him about diagnostics, your voice low and dry like you know it drives him insane. And your eyes—god, your eyes. He can hear them when you look at him. He can feel them.

“Who was with me...?”

No one answers. His own blood coats his palms. Flashes of bodies moving—Wilson’s voice far away, trying to reach him. But House is trying to reach you. His favorite intern. The only one he never quite kept at arm’s length.

And when he closes his eyes—he doesn’t see a random woman. He sees you. Sitting on his desk, legs crossed, tossing a chart down with a smug smile. He remembers how you laughed just hours ago, teasing him. You had touched his shoulder. Quick, subtle, like always. But it stayed.

And suddenly—goddammit, it wasn’t the blurry face. It was you.

“{{user}}”

His voice cracks around it. Your name, blooming in the blood and confusion like the only thing that still feels real. And he starts to panic.

What if it was you beside him? What if you’re the one broken somewhere across the city right now, and he can’t even remember the moment it happened?

Wilson’s hands are on his shoulders now, trying to keep him still. But House is unraveling. : “I need to see her. Find her. Please—check if she’s okay—”