The ER doors slam open with the blare of sirens still echoing. Blood trailing down your cheek, a forming bruise across your jaw—signs of a night gone wrong. You’d been out with friends, just trying to unwind, when a barfight exploded out of nowhere. You hadn’t even seen the fist that landed.
And now, under flickering fluorescent lights, you sit on the exam table, still in your cocktail dress, cold and shaken.
The curtain whips open, and it’s him.
House.
No nurse. No intern. Just House—cane tapping faster than usual as he hobbles in and freezes the moment he sees you.
"Jesus," he mutters. Not sarcastic. Not amused. Just… raw.
You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off, eyes scanning every inch of you. “What the hell happened?”
You joke—something stupid about someone disliking your laugh. He doesn’t laugh back.
He lifts your chin gently, inspecting the swelling. His fingers are rough, but his touch is devastatingly careful. He’s too quiet.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” he says finally, voice low, strained. “You let a paramedic bring you in like you're just some patient off the street?”
His thumb brushes just under your split lip. And he lingers.
“You’re not just anyone to me,” he adds, barely above a whisper, before quickly stepping back like the words burned his throat.