The hiss of the airlock seals the room with a finality that makes your skin crawl. You try to swallow it down—the rising tide in your chest, the tingling in your hands—but it’s useless. Your brain registers every inch of the sealed glass, the tightness of the medical isolation unit, the two cots shoved too close together.

House is saying something. Sarcastic, probably. But it’s muted, distant.

You’re already backing toward the far wall, eyes darting for an exit that doesn’t exist. Your breath comes short and fast. Too fast. You sink down, hand to your chest.

Claustrophobia.

You hadn't said anything earlier. You didn’t want to seem weak—especially not around him. But now your vision is spotting at the edges, and the panic is louder than anything.

His voice cuts through it.

“Hey. Hey—look at me.” He’s crouched in front of you, not smirking, not making a single joke “You’re not dying. You’re panicking. That’s different.”

You shake your head, breath still ragged, eyes glassy. He lowers himself slowly, dropping his cane behind him and moving into your space—so close you can feel the warmth of him.

“Breathe in with me,” he says, tone low and steady. “Now out. That’s it. Again.”

You grip the sleeve of his shirt like a lifeline.

No teasing. No biting comments. Just his hand brushing your wrist, the rhythm of his breath syncing with yours, grounding you.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you,” he mutters after a long minute, quieter now. “Even if you’re dumb enough to get locked in here with me.”