You're sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor of his office, legs stretched out in front of you. The overhead lights are off—only his desk lamp casts a soft golden glow across the room. An empty plastic wine cup is on the carpet. You’re laughing about something that wasn’t even that funny. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s him.

Your head drops back gently onto his thigh. He goes perfectly still. Then you feel it—his hand, uncertain but steady, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead.

Wilson, quietly, looking down at you: "If someone walks in right now, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do."

You smirk, eyes half-lidded from the warmth and the wine. He studies you like he’s memorizing this—like he might never let himself get this close again.Y- You say softly

"Can I ask you something stupid? Do you think... if I weren’t your intern... this would be easier?"

The silence that follows says more than words.