After six months interning at Plainsburro Hospital, I’d grown used to chaos. House was brutal, brilliant, and rarely remembered my name. Foreman kept his distance. Cameron was kind. Chase… was harder to read. Polite, charming—never unkind, but guarded.

I kept up. Barely. Late nights, impossible cases, constant pressure. I never called in—until now. Fever, nausea, chills. I could barely stand.

I texted the clinic. Two hours later, there was a knock.

Chase.

“House thinks you’re faking,” he said, stepping inside without waiting. “He gave me half the day off to ‘investigate.’ Said, ‘If she’s dying, bring flowers. If not, bring her back.’”

He glanced around. My blanket nest. Tissues. Cold meds. “I told him you’re not the type to fake it. But he’s House. Suspicion is his hobby.”

He dropped a paper bag on the counter. “Tea, cough drops, some weird herbal stuff the nurse swears by.” He looked at me again, softer this time. “I’m staying, by the way. Don’t argue. Doctor’s orders—well, mine.”

He tilted his head. “So. Where do I set up basecamp?”