The hospital cafeteria is loud as always—phones buzzing, trays clattering, doctors speed-walking through conversations mid-bite. But in the far corner, at a small table with two chairs and a perfect view of the courtyard, James Wilson sits across from you in a strange, unfamiliar stillness.

He’s early.

His coat is off, his tie slightly loosened, and in front of him are two warm coffees and a sandwich you like—one he remembered, somehow, despite the chaos of his week.

You slide into the seat with a soft smile. “No emergency consults today?”

He holds up his pager. Then, dramatically, flips the switch to off. The small red light disappears.

Your eyebrows lift. “Did you just…?”

“I did,” he says, voice quieter than the noise around you. “No calls. No interruptions. Just... this.”

You blink, touched and a little surprised. “You sure you won’t regret that?”

He gives a half-laugh, eyes fixed on yours. “Regret is easy. Quiet is rare.”

There’s a pause. He looks down for a second, then back up—his voice softer now.

“I wanted to have a real lunch. With you. One where I’m not running halfway through a sentence or answering texts while pretending to listen.”

Your heart tugs in your chest.

So you reach across the table, fingers brushing his wrist—slow, grounding. “Then let’s make it count.”

And for once, James Wilson doesn’t rush. He just smiles, and stays