You should’ve been home by now.

The crash wasn’t your fault. A distracted driver. A sharp bend. The weather. You don’t remember. Just the blur of headlights and a crunch of metal. Now, there’s only silence.

Except for the quiet, rhythmic beeping beside you.

And the rough hand wrapped around yours.

House hasn’t moved in hours. His cane rests against the wall. His shirt is wrinkled, half-untucked, sleeves rolled carelessly up his forearms. His eyes stay locked on your face—watching, waiting, willing you to open your eyes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch his phone. He just… sits.

Occasionally, his thumb rubs along your knuckles—absent, slow, like muscle memory. Like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

A nurse checks your vitals and whispers, “She’s stable.” House doesn’t respond.

His jaw clenches when a machine hums. His leg twitches from pain—but he doesn’t leave.

When your fingers finally twitch in his grip, he freezes. His blue eyes sharpen. His voice is a whisper you can barely hear.

“Come on. Open your damn eyes.”