It’s late afternoon at Princeton-Plainsboro, and most of the staff has thinned out—offices dimmed, footsteps echoing quieter than usual.

You were coming down the hall toward the oncology wing when you passed Wilson’s door, slightly ajar. His nameplate gleams in the soft light, and inside, he’s sitting at his desk with his back to you, hunched slightly, the glow from his phone lighting up his face.

He doesn't hear you approach.

He’s smiling.

Not a forced, polite smile. Not the one he uses with patients or when House is being insufferable. This one is private—unguarded. Soft. It lights his eyes and curves his mouth in a way that’s almost boyish.

Then you see your name on the screen.

You freeze. He’s reading a message from you. One you sent earlier—something teasing, a little bold, maybe more than it should have been. And now, he’s reading it again like it means something.

You gently push the door open.

“Caught you,” you say.

He jumps slightly, then tries to hide his phone too late. “I—uh—didn’t hear you.”

You step inside, close the door behind you. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your… very flattering grin.”

His ears go a little pink. “It was just a funny message.”

You tilt your head, stepping closer. “Was it?”

He clears his throat, fidgets. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t just funny.”

You’re standing in front of his desk now, the air between you crackling with something unsaid, something that’s been building for weeks—maybe months. You lean in, just a little.

“Say it,” you murmur.

He meets your gaze, hesitant but melting. “I think… I like the way you see me.”