The on-call room is dim and warm, filled with the low hum of machines beyond the wall and the faint patter of rain outside. It’s 3:47 a.m. when you both collapse on the shared couch, Wilson still holding the latest chart you’d gone over together.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But when your eyes flutter open to the soft gold of morning light leaking through the blinds, you realize his arm is still around your shoulders—your head tucked against his chest. One of your hands rests lightly over his heartbeat.

He stirs gently beneath you.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

His voice, hoarse with sleep, murmurs, “You were dreaming… you said my name.”

You feel heat bloom in your chest—and maybe on your cheeks.

“And?” you whisper.

He pauses, eyes still closed. “And I didn’t want to wake you.”