It’s one of those long days at Princeton-Plainsboro. The kind that bleeds into late afternoon without warning, leaving everyone irritable and running on caffeine fumes. You hadn’t even meant to run into Wilson—he just appeared, as he often does, in that soft, calm way that somehow disarms even the worst moods.

Now you're both sitting on a bench outside the hospital cafeteria, the fading sun spilling through the windows. You’ve got a sandwich. He’s got… nothing. Just a bottle of water and the look of someone who forgot to take care of himself again.

You notice. You always do.

“You didn’t eat again,” you say.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but it is. You’ve seen him like this before—too many times. Always caring for everyone else, forgetting himself in the process.

Without thinking, you tear the sandwich in two and offer him half.

“Here. Take it.”

Wilson hesitates. “I’m fine.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

A beat. He sighs in surrender, takes the offered half—but pauses just before he bites into it, looking at you over the crust with a crooked smile.

“Sharing food…” he says slowly, “…dangerous territory.”

You feel it, then. That flicker. That shift in the air.

You try to play it cool. “Why? Afraid you’ll catch feelings?”

He chuckles, eyes dipping to your lips for just a second too long. “Something like that.”

He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. And when he looks at you again, something’s different.

More open. More honest. More yours.