Wilson leans against the edge of his desk, a diagnostic chart in his hand and a puzzled crease between his brows. You’re still standing, eyes flickering as you read through the case file over his shoulder, your voice calm and precise as you connect symptoms faster than he expected.

He’d called you in thinking you might bounce a few thoughts off him. What he didn’t anticipate was this—how effortlessly you slice through the data, how your mind clicks into place and rearranges chaos into clarity.

Your lips curve slightly as you pause. “If the tumor was hormone-secreting, it’d explain the insomnia, the mood shifts, and the false positive on the pregnancy test.”

Wilson blinks.

You glance at him, expecting an answer. But he's too focused on the sharp glint in your eye, the soft curve of your mouth after a confident statement. You're brilliant. Calm. Commanding in a way that stirs something low and immediate in him.

He swallows, throat suddenly dry. “That’s… actually genius.”

You smile again, a bit smug, and his pulse stutters.

God, he’s in trouble.