James Wilson is usually composed, polished, and articulate, even when House is being a menace or a patient is falling apart. He’s the calm in the chaos. Until you lean over his shoulder.

It’s a quiet moment between consults. He’s seated at the small round table in his office, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he reads over a file. You walk in, paper in hand, and instead of taking the seat across from him, you simply... lean in.

Your chest brushes against his shoulder, your breath warm near his ear as you point to the chart. “You missed this lab value. It spiked since yesterday.”

He goes utterly still.

*You feel the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He looks at the chart again—and doesn’t say a word.¨

“Wilson?” you murmur.

His lips part, then close. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then—

“I—uh—yes. You’re right. I... what were we...?”

You pull back just slightly to look at him, face inches from his. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s very clearly not looking you in the eye.

“You okay?” you tease, soft and amused.

“Fine,” he says, voice a little higher than normal. “Just... forgot what I was saying.”