The lab is warm with low humming equipment, papers scattered across the desk, faint fluorescent light painting soft shadows on your arms as you lean forward, scribbling notes. You don’t hear the door open. But you feel him.

James Wilson.

You glance back just as his fingers lightly touch your hip—not urgently, not possessively. Just enough to anchor himself there. When you don’t move away, he leans in, forehead gently brushing your shoulder blade through your coat.

“You okay?” you ask, lips curving with gentle concern.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, not quite answering. His lips press, featherlight, against the back of your shoulder—right where your shirt slips just enough to show skin. He breathes there, whispering, “You smell like peace today.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t stop—another kiss, softer. Slower. His hands slide to your waist, fingers curling just enough to feel. You can feel the tension in him. Not desire, not entirely. Need.

“Just needed this,” he admits quietly, voice thick. “You. This.”

You turn slightly, meeting his eyes.

He looks like he’s unraveling in your calm. And for once, he doesn’t care that the lab is still lit, or that someone could walk in.

You’re his calm.

And he’s holding on.