House had seen countless patients rolled into the ER, battered and broken, but none had ever made his stomach drop the way you did.

Wilson’s voice was distant, drowned out by the pounding in his ears.

—“It was bad, House. The car flipped. Internal bleeding, possible head trauma…”

House clenched his jaw, gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles turned white.

—“What, you think I need you to spell it out for me?” His voice was sharp, but Wilson didn’t flinch. He knew House too well. He saw the way his eyes stayed locked on your unconscious form, the rare flicker of fear behind them.

Ignoring everyone else, House moved to your bedside. Tubes, monitors, bandages—it was too much. He reached for your hand, hesitated, then let his fingers brush against yours.

—“You’re such an idiot,” he muttered. “What, were you trying to make my life even more miserable?”

No response. Just the steady beeping of the machines.

Cuddy appeared in the doorway.

—“We’re taking them into surgery now.”

House didn’t argue. He just stood there, watching as they wheeled you away.

Hours later, Wilson found him in the waiting area. When the surgeon finally approached, House tensed.

—“They’re stable. No major brain trauma.”

Relief hit him, but the doctor hesitated.

—“There’s something else. We ran scans… They’re pregnant.”

House blinked, his mind stalling for the first time in years.

Wilson watched him carefully.

—“You okay?”

House didn’t respond. Instead, he turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

The dim light cast soft shadows across your face. You were still asleep, your breathing steady. Carefully, House sat beside you, staring at you for a long moment before resting a hand over yours.

—“You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?” he murmured.

For once, there was no sarcasm in his voice—just something softer. Something real.