The surgery went well—no complications, clean margins, and the patient's family relieved. You’d assisted him throughout, gloved hands moving in sync, your voice steady, your presence grounded. He hadn’t said much, but his eyes followed you longer than necessary after every suture you tied.

Now you're alone in the scrub room, peeling off gloves, hands under warm water, the sound muffled and steady. Your surgical cap is slightly askew, cheeks flushed with leftover adrenaline. You’re focused on your reflection in the mirror—until you feel it. That distinct pull at the back of your neck.

He’s behind you.

You glance up into the mirror and catch him—James Wilson, halfway through removing his own cap, staring at you like you’d just stolen the breath from his lungs. His gaze isn't clinical. Not careful. It lingers.

You don’t speak right away. Neither does he. His eyes widen faintly at being caught, but he doesn’t look away.

Instead, he offers a single line—his voice low, almost amused.

“You’re supposed to scrub out, not hypnotize the glass.”

Your lips curve. “You were the one doing the staring.”

He steps beside you, gaze finally breaking as he turns the tap on. “And you caught me. That makes us even... almost.”

Almost.