You only meant it as a small gesture—a note left casually on his desk after a particularly hard day. A simple square of paper folded twice, written in your neatest script:

“You handled the Simmons case beautifully today. The way you spoke to the family was… something else. Just wanted you to know I noticed.”

You hadn’t expected anything in return. Wilson had smiled faintly the next day, a little longer than usual, but never mentioned it.

Weeks later, your ID badge slips behind his desk when you stop by to drop off files. As you help him move a few things aside, a thin wallet falls open onto the floor. Your note is tucked in the inside pocket, edges worn soft, crease lines faded from being opened more than once.

You freeze.

Wilson notices—of course he does—but doesn’t stop you from looking. Instead, he clears his throat and crouches beside you. “It was… kind,” he says quietly. “People don’t usually say things like that. Not to me.”

Your heart does something traitorous. He’s still crouched next to you, suddenly very close, his voice warmer than it should be.

“Don’t let House find it,” you joke, voice light.

“I’d rather lose my wallet.”