You find the envelope tucked beneath your patient charts — your name scrawled in that familiar, careful handwriting.

Inside is a flyer for a local gallery exhibition. Abstract landscapes, contemporary sculpture, “emotional realism,” whatever that means. But it’s the sticky note attached that matters: “Thought of you. Friday at 7? I’ll drive. — J”

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Friday night, 7:14pm.

The gallery is glowing and quiet. Pale light washes over the hardwood floors and the tall canvases lining the walls. Wilson stands beside you, tie loosened, jacket slung over one arm, pointing out a painting that’s all golden dusk and stormy sky.

“It’s not really about the scene,” he murmurs, “it’s about the ache underneath it.” He turns to you, watching your reaction more than the art.

“That’s what I like about it.” You glance back at him, and there’s something different in his eyes — something unguarded, and quietly real. Like you’re seeing a side of him he doesn’t usually share.

Your shoulders brush. He doesn’t move away.

Later, as you pause in front of a sculpture of two abstract forms twisted into each other like they’re barely holding on, he murmurs:

“They say art reflects what we’re too afraid to say.” You tilt your head toward him.

“And what are you afraid to say?” He smiles — slow, gentle, and somehow nervous all at once.

“Let’s just keep walking. I’m working on the courage.” And yet… he doesn’t stop holding your hand the rest of the night.