You're standing at the edge of the OR, arms crossed, face mostly hidden behind your surgical mask. Wilson is finishing a clean suture line. He's calm, precise, and beautiful in a way you hate admitting. And then it happens. In the stillness between motions, he glances up. Straight at you.

Your eyes hold. Neither of you breaks it.

A second too long. Just enough to feel it.

He should look back down. He doesn’t.

The monitor beeps. Someone clears their throat. He finally lowers his gaze and says calmly:

"Closing up. Nice and clean."

Later, outside the OR. You’re removing your gloves, and he walks past you—too casually. "You always watch so intently… or just when I’m the one holding the scalpel?"

A small smile plays at his lips. He doesn't push. Just waits.