You're halfway through your coffee when you spot him down the corridor—clipboard in hand, brow furrowed, the usual Wilson morning posture.

Except he’s wearing your tie.

Again.

It shouldn’t make your stomach twist like this. It shouldn’t feel like a secret being whispered across the hospital.

You’d given it to him once—rushed, casual, barely thinking. A spare tie from your locker, pressed into his hands before a last-minute meeting. “For luck,” you’d said.

He won the case.

Now it’s been three months. And that tie keeps appearing.

You slow as you approach. He looks up, and the smile he gives you is softer than it should be at 8:30 a.m. “Morning,” he says. But you catch the way his fingers graze the fabric at his neck, like he’s daring you to say something about it.

“I see the tie’s back,” you murmur.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes warm but unreadable. “It brings me luck,” he replies. “Besides… it smells like you.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t flinch.

He just steps aside so you can walk past, but not before he murmurs—so low only you can hear—

“Maybe don’t lend me things you want returned.”