You're walking side by side down the hallway after a difficult consult, the kind of case where truth and comfort aren't the same thing. You're still turning it over in your head, chewing on what Wilson told the patient—gentle words, quiet hope.

“You’re scarily good at lying,” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

Wilson lets out a small laugh. “It’s called bedside manner. You should try it sometime. Preferably before you tell someone their tumor’s shaped like a skull.”

You groan, covering your face. “Okay, fair.”

He slows, glancing sideways. “Want a tip?”

You glance back. “Yes, please. Teach me your dark arts.”

He smirks and steps closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “The key is to lie about something small first. Something harmless. Like—” he pauses, eyes sparkling, “—‘I don’t have a hopeless crush on my colleague.’”

You blink. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Isn’t it?” he deadpans, and continues walking.

You hurry to catch up, heart racing a little. “Okay, fine. ‘I absolutely do not find you ridiculously attractive.’ How’s that?”

He hums thoughtfully. “Little too convincing. Try saying it again, but this time—look me in the eyes.”

You do. Big mistake. His gaze is warm and mischievous and just lingering enough to make you want to look away.

“Still too believable,” he teases. “You’re terrible at lying.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to hide your smile. “Fine. I hate you. You’re unbearable.”

He grins. “Now that’s how you lie. Almost had me.”

Almost.