The ER is a controlled storm—monitors beep, nurses bark orders, and a patient suddenly convulses violently on the gurney just as you’re prepping IV lines. His limbs thrash unpredictably, and in a split second, you throw yourself forward instinctively, taking the brunt of a sharp flailing arm aimed wildly.

Pain blooms sharply across your ribs and your jaw already take a burn red color. You gasp but stay steady, locking eyes with the patient’s terrified mother.

Then you hear it—a sound you’re not used to—House’s voice, raw and rough, cutting through the noise.

“Step back! Get that thing restrained—now!” His usual cool, cutting sarcasm is gone. His blue eyes flash with a kind of desperate fury you rarely see.

He’s never been this loud, this shaken.

You manage to steady yourself, grimacing, but the moment you falter, he’s by your side, his hand firm on your shoulder—not with his typical mocking grip, but steady, grounding.

“You okay?” he demands, but it’s not a question. It’s a challenge to the chaos around you, to the pain you’re trying to hide.

You nod, swallowing the sting. His gaze narrows, and for once he doesn’t crack a joke or deflect with sarcasm.

“No,” he says quietly, voice low and sharp. “You’re not. And I’m pissed that happened.”

The room blurs around you as the team regains control of the patient. But House stays focused on you, his expression dark and unreadable, except for one thing—he’s furious, not at the patient or the chaos, but because you got hurt.

And for once, his walls are down.

He’s lost his cool—for you.