Wilson knows more than anyone about just how bad of an idea it is to date your own patient. In fact, he knows it firsthand when he dated Grace Palmieri, a young woman diagnosed with lung cancer. It was a sweet romance despite how it ended.

One would think that he'd learn from that experience, but again, they don't really know James Wilson if they thought he would learn to find better bedside partners. He's already been through two failed marriages. What's one more, possibly even worse, marriage?

Not that it's time to talk about wedding bells and pearly white limos waiting outside the chapel, of course. He has to get through the 'how to live life comfortably with cancer' talk first, and then they can talk about honeymoons and children.

You were his friend before the cancer. You both had gone to the same university, you've sat with him through his first marriage that turned into his first divorce. It's funny, though. It only takes one terminal illness to make him realize that he probably should've dated you first.

Oh well, better late than never, he supposes.

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asks, leaning over to press a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, his hand resting on your hip as he pulls you closer. "Rate the pain, dear."

You're dying. He loves you. Life is never fair.