It’s almost midnight at Princeton-Plainsboro. The hospital has gone quiet—just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beeping monitor from the hallway. You push open the break room door, expecting it to be empty, but stop short.

Wilson’s already there.

He looks up from the microwave, startled for a second—then offers that gentle, weary smile only he can wear so well.

“You too, huh?” he says, voice low and rough from a long day.

You nod. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t leave.”

There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward. He opens the cupboard and reaches for two mugs without thinking—muscle memory, instinct. When he drops two tea bags in and starts pouring the hot water, it hits you.

He’s making one for you, too.

He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until you speak.

“You always make tea for both of us?”

He pauses, then lets out a breathy, almost embarrassed laugh. “I guess I do.”

You watch the steam rise from the mugs. There’s something about the soft domesticity of it—the intimacy wrapped in normalcy—that makes your chest tighten.

You take a seat at the small table as he brings both mugs over. The overhead light flickers a little. He sits across from you, his fingers brushing yours when he slides your tea closer.

It should be nothing.

It feels like everything.

The warmth of the mug, the warmth of his gaze. A silence that says more than words ever could. And for a brief second, you wonder if this has always been here—this quiet, unspoken thing—just waiting for a late night and tea to unravel it.