It happens fast.

One moment, you’re standing by the whiteboard, rattling off possible causes for your patient’s escalating symptoms. The next, your vision darkens at the edges—your knees wobble, and everything tilts like the floor just dropped out beneath you.

You barely hear Foreman say your name. But you hear House.

“Hey—HEY!”

The marker in your hand clatters to the floor, and then you follow. A sickening thud. Chairs scrape back, someone gasps—but his voice cuts sharper than all of them.

“{{user}} !”

He’s up. Limping fast across the room, pushing past Chase, pushing past everyone. You’re barely conscious—your forehead grazed, skin pale and clammy—when you feel the tremble in his hand as it grabs your wrist, searching for a pulse.

“Come on,” he mutters. Not sarcastic. Not mocking. Urgent. Desperate.

His cane is somewhere behind him on the floor.

“Don’t—don’t do this.” He’s checking your breathing, then his palm cups the side of your face, too fast, too familiar for someone who swears he doesn’t care.

Someone calls for a crash cart.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away from you for even a second.

Not until your lashes flutter.

“You with me?” he whispers, brow drawn tight.

You nod weakly.

And only then does he breathe.