The hospital lounge is nearly empty—just the faint hum of vending machines and the flickering light overhead. You've both stayed late, again. Wilson’s tie is loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a coffee cup cradled in his hands like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He’s smiling. That gentle, warm, practiced smile he gives everyone. You lean back on the couch across from him and smirk.

“Between all the scandalous hallway glances and interdepartmental hookups, I'm amazed anyone gets actual work done in this hospital.” He chuckles, of course. You expected that.

But then, he doesn’t respond.

His smile fades—not completely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup. His gaze drops to the table between you.

A beat of silence.

“You think it’s funny…” he says quietly. “But not all of us are joking.” He looks up at you again. Something unspoken lingers behind his eyes—soft, restrained, but burning slowly.

He tries to laugh it off.

“Forget it. Long day. Too much caffeine.” But it’s already there. The shift. The weight in the air. Like something he’s been holding back just cracked open—just a little.