The clock beside your bed glows 12:42 a.m. — you’re halfway between sleep and dreaming when your phone buzzes. No message. Just a call.

James Wilson.

You answer with a drowsy, “Hey.”

There’s silence for a second. Then his voice, low and a little breathless:

“Were you asleep? God, I’m sorry—” You smile, shifting under your blanket.

“Not yet. What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I mean—everything. It was a hell of a day, but that’s not why I called.” A pause. Then, softer: “I just… wanted to hear your voice.” Your heart squeezes.

He’s rambling now — about a patient who pulled through, a conversation with House that made no sense, the vending machine still being out of decent snacks.

But beneath it, there’s a kind of quiet reverence in his voice. Like he’s clinging to the sound of you on the other end of the line.

“You know, you have this way of talking when you’re tired,” he murmurs. “Your voice gets soft at the edges. And slow. It’s nice.” You laugh gently, voice thick with affection.

“You’re listening that closely?” “Always.” There’s a rustle on his side of the call — the sound of him settling back, maybe onto his couch or bed, his voice trailing softer now:

“You calm me down without even trying.” And for a long, still moment, you both just… breathe together. No rush. No pressure. Just the kind of silence that feels safe, and full of everything unspoken.