The hallway is buzzing with quiet urgency. Monitors beep in the background. A trauma case is being prepped, and everyone is moving fast—but not him.

James Wilson stands in front of you, calm, composed… except for his eyes. They flick briefly to your ID badge, crooked and slipping off-center as your lab coat shifts with your nervous fidgeting. You hadn’t even noticed it.

He steps in.

You freeze. You’re both close—closer than necessary.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice softer than usual. His hand lifts slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing the plastic of your badge, then—barely, lightly—your collarbone. His thumb grazes the skin just beneath the lapel of your coat as he centers the tag, straightening it with gentle precision.

Your breath catches.

He doesn't look up immediately. His fingers linger for a second too long. He must feel your heartbeat there, right at the hollow of your throat, thudding louder than it should be.

When he finally meets your eyes, his gaze is unreadable—but there's something in it. Unspoken. Curious. Daring.

“Better,” he says, like he didn’t just short-circuit your entire nervous system.

The chaos of the hospital continues around you, but in that instant, everything narrows to the feeling of his hand—warm, fleeting—and the look he gave you before stepping back, just enough to be polite.

But not enough to forget.