You were late to morning rounds. Not catastrophically, not House-level late—but late enough that your coffee was still too hot to sip, and your shoes were mismatched until the elevator hit the third floor.

You hadn’t had time to change. Not really. And the only thing nearby had been his sweatshirt—left folded over the back of a chair at his place, warm and worn-in, smelling like a mix of his cologne and dryer sheets.

Now you were walking the corridor of Princeton-Plainsboro in it.

Baggy on you, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem brushing your thighs under your white coat.

James Wilson looked up as you stepped into the hallway. Mid-conversation with a nurse. Mid-sentence. And completely derailed.

His lips parted slightly—surprised, yes, but also something else. Something slower. More amused. That subtle half-smile he wore when he noticed something only he was allowed to notice.

“You’re late,” he said softly, stepping closer, his eyes flicking down to the sweatshirt.

Then, quieter: “And is that mine?”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to look innocent. “Yours? I don’t see your name on it.”

He leaned a little closer, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “No, but I remember the night I left it on that chair. You were sitting on the counter arguing with me about Red Vines and stealing the last piece of pizza.”

“Your memory’s oddly specific,” you murmured, heartbeat quickening.

“I’m an oncologist,” he said, stepping beside you as the team walked toward the patient room “Noticing small changes in tissue and sweatshirt theft is kind of my thing.”

But every time Wilson’s gaze drifted back to you, you caught it. Soft. Focused. Wanting.