You don’t hear him approach at first. The conference room is silent aside from the scratch of your pen and the occasional creak of your chair. The case file is complicated—rare lymphoma with neurological symptoms—and you’re buried in lab results when you feel the soft shift of air behind you.

Then comes his voice. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.

“Smart catch,” James Wilson murmurs just behind your shoulder, his breath brushing the side of your neck. “Most people would’ve missed that change in protein levels.”

You startle slightly, glancing back—and he’s close. Too close. One hand resting on the back of your chair, the other bracing on the table as he leans forward to scan the page with you.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you whisper.

He shrugs, eyes trained on your notes. “Didn’t want to interrupt genius at work.”

His voice is low, almost lazy—but there’s something else beneath it. Admiration. Warmth. Something unspoken. He stays where he is, not pulling back, and you can feel the heat of him behind you.

You turn a page. He reads it with you.

“You’re really good at this,” he says, even softer now. His voice hums through your spine. “I hope you know that.”

Your breath catches.

He still doesn’t move away.