It was one of those rare days where Princeton-Plainsboro threw something halfway glamorous—a departmental fundraiser. You’d spent longer than usual getting ready, tugging on a dress that made you feel sharp, not just smart. And the heels? A gamble. Painful, maybe. But they made you stand a little taller.

Wilson noticed the moment he saw you. You caught it—the flicker in his eyes that said he wasn't used to seeing you like this. That he liked it.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just offered his arm with a polite smile, and you took it with a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

As the night ended, you walked side by side toward the hospital entrance. Most people were already gone, the parking lot quiet, soft light trailing behind you.

And he slowed down.

You didn't say a word. But he did. In the most James Wilson way possible: by adjusting his pace, one subtle step at a time, until your strides lined up—his longer legs giving ground for your heels.

He looked down at your shoes, then back up. “They’re nice. Not very… Princeton-Plainsboro, but nice.”

You smiled. “So you’re saying I look out of place?”

“I’m saying you look like you walked out of somewhere better.” His tone faltered like he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Like it slipped.

You looked at him. “That why you’re walking slower? So I don’t fall?”

He shrugged, still watching the path ahead and didn’t let go of your hand until you reached your car.. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like the view when I do.”