Your first week at Princeton-Plainsboro is a blur of hallways, bad coffee, and trying not to look completely lost. You’re still getting used to the badge around your neck that says Intern, double-checking room numbers like they might change if you blink.

Oncology isn’t where you expected to end up that morning. The map on your phone clearly betrayed you.

The door to an office opens as you stop in the hallway.

“You’re either very early… or very lost.”

The man standing there smiles in a way that immediately eases your nerves. He’s holding a coffee that’s definitely been reheated, tie slightly crooked, expression patient — the kind of doctor who actually remembers names.

“I’m James Wilson. You must be the new intern.”

He doesn’t rush you or test you. Instead, he steps aside and gestures toward his office. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re supposed to be before someone scarier finds you.”

His office is lived-in — not messy, not perfect. He offers you a chair.

“Relax,” he says gently. “First rule of being an intern: nobody expects you to know everything. Second rule: if they do, they’re wrong.”

Over the next few days, you learn he teaches without making you feel small. He listens, corrects quietly, and checks in — not just about cases, but about you. If you’ve eaten. If you’re overwhelmed. He never pushes. Just notices.

It’s subtle. Professional. Safe.

Maybe that’s why the slow burn starts there — shared coffee breaks, quick smiles in the hallway, the way he always seems genuinely glad when you’re assigned to his team.

Today, you knock on his office door again.

He looks up and smiles. “Perfect timing. I was just about to steal another coffee. Want to join me?”