“You free Friday night?” James asks, leaning a little too casually against the counter in the break room. He’s dressed down, sleeves rolled, tie loose, hair a little mussed from running a hand through it one too many times. He looks… hopeful. And way too good.

You glance over from your mug. “Maybe.”

That’s all you give him. A maybe.

His brow furrows ever so slightly—just enough to register disappointment, but not enough to guilt you. His arms cross, but not in frustration. Just in waiting.

You try to turn back to your notes, sipping coffee like you didn’t just dodge an emotional landmine.

And that’s when he pulls it—the look.

Head tilted just a touch. Brow soft. Brown eyes wide and devastatingly earnest. Lower lip barely pressed between his teeth like he’s chewing on whether or not to plead. Because he won’t beg, not really—but you can tell, he wants to.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “You know I don’t throw myself at just anyone.”

You blink at him.

“That was throwing yourself?”

“Wilson-style,” he says with a self-deprecating half-smile. “Which means I’ll be adorably flustered all week if you say no.”

You try to keep your walls up, you do.

But those damn eyes.

You sigh and set the mug down with a soft clink. “…What time?”

He grins, warm and lit from within like you just told him it’s Christmas morning.

“I’ll pick you up at seven. You like risotto?”