It started with a file.

Late afternoon, low light in the break room, and you were flipping through one of Wilson’s case notes—trying to decipher what looked less like medical documentation and more like the aftermath of a chicken running across ink.

You squinted, tilted the paper, then looked up at him with a grin.

“Is this supposed to say ‘stable vitals,’ or did you suffer a small stroke mid-sentence?”

James glanced over his coffee cup, mock-offended. “It’s clearly ‘stable.’ With... personality.”

You bit back a laugh. “It’s a hieroglyphic, Wilson. Are we supposed to fax this to Egypt for translation?”

He smirked, setting his coffee down. “You mock now, but one day my handwriting will save lives.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

But the next morning, when you opened your locker, a folded note was tucked inside your stethoscope.

"Chart’s in room 2. Also: yes, it said ‘stable vitals.’ – J."

It wasn’t signed with his full name. Just the initial. Just “J.”

Since then, they’ve kept coming.

On your lunch container:

“Eat something. You forget when you’re focused.”

On a file:

“Patient’s nervous. Maybe because he hasn’t seen you smile today.”

Some were helpful. Some were absolutely ridiculous.

“Still not asking Cuddy for a handwriting tutor. Nice try.”

And now, this afternoon, there’s one resting on your laptop. Folded neatly. A paperclip securing it like it matters.

You unfold it slowly.

"Maybe I write badly so you’ll keep reading me more closely. – J."

You glance across the room—and find him already looking. He doesn’t smile. Just raises a brow. As if he’s saying: Your move.