The boardroom emptied slowly, tension still hanging in the air like smoke. You gathered your notes in stiff, silent movements, your chest tight from the barely disguised critique you'd just endured. One of the senior board members had questioned your case notes—your confidence—your judgment. You’d been ready to defend yourself. You wanted to. But James Wilson had spoken before you could.

He cut through the air like a scalpel. “Her work is solid. And if you think the hospital should punish curiosity and autonomy, you’re wasting her talent—and your time.”

The silence afterward had been heavy. Respectful. But also too loud.

Now, in the quiet of the hallway just outside that very room, he lingers.

He’s not looking at you at first. His hand runs through his hair, then drops to his side, fidgeting with his ID badge. “I—” he starts, then sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that. I overstepped.”

You cross your arms, not out of defiance, but to hold in the emotion you’re not sure how to name.

"You were defending me."

He looks at you then. And it stings how sincere he is when he speaks.

“Yes. But it wasn’t my place.” He pauses, eyes soft but guilt-ridden. “I should’ve let you answer. I know you could’ve handled it. You didn’t need me to step in like I was—” He stops himself.

But the apology in his eyes? It’s wrapped in something deeper.

Care. Pride. Fear of crossing a line you both pretend doesn’t exist.