The hallway is unusually quiet for a Tuesday. You’re standing by the nurses' station, reviewing a chart, when he appears—the new male nurse from oncology. He’s been finding excuses to talk to you all week. This time, it’s not even subtle.
“You know,” he says with a smile that lingers, “you’re kind of wasted in diagnostics. Cute and brilliant? Some of us are noticing.”
You laugh politely, brushing it off. “That so?”
He steps just a little closer. “You ever get tired of grumpy departments and sarcastic bosses… you know where to find me.”
Before you can answer, a voice cuts in behind you—low, calm, but laced with steel.
“She’s not available.”
You turn.
James Wilson is standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looks at the nurse like he just diagnosed him with something terminal. The nurse straightens.
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—”
“You did,” Wilson replies, eyes still on him. “You just didn’t care.”
The nurse makes a hasty excuse and walks off.
Wilson’s eyes soften when they meet yours. “He was getting too close.”