You're rushing, hands gloved, mask slightly askew as you prepare for the consult. The surgical wing is cold and loud with preparation chatter, but suddenly, all of it fades. James Wilson steps up behind you—close, but not intruding. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you struggle gently with the elastic, the knot loose behind your head.

“You’re going to touch your face,” he says softly.

You turn your head slightly, eyes locking with his. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

He smiles—half patient, half amused. “You really don’t.”

Before you can argue, his fingers reach around the back of your head. He moves slowly, carefully—thumb grazing your nape as he tightens the mask ties with quiet precision. His fingers linger just a second too long. You feel his knuckles brush your neck. Your breath stutters behind the mask.

“There,” he murmurs.

But he’s still close. His hands drop, but not all the way. One stays lightly at your shoulder. His eyes search yours, something unspoken tightening between you like the mask now snug against your skin.