It was late. The hospital quieted into that rare lull—monitors humming, soft footsteps echoing far off in another wing. You were supposed to drop off a chart, but he'd left his notes spread open on the small couch in the oncology office, pages folded and marked with neat, careful handwriting.

Curious, you glanced down. A familiar pen. Your name on the corner.

And then you saw it.

A piece of paper tucked between progress notes—not clinical, not diagnostic. A poem. Handwritten, raw, and startlingly beautiful in its simplicity.

“She walks into morning like it’s hers to carry— no white coat needed to be luminous. She does not ask for praise, but I give it in silence— in glances I hope she never sees. Except I think she does.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t supposed to read it. But you couldn’t stop.

And when you heard the door click shut behind you, you turned slowly—James Wilson stood there, still in his white coat, coffee cooling in one hand, eyes locked on the page in yours.

For once, he didn’t rush to speak. Just that warm, familiar look—tinted with something deeper.

“Was hoping you'd find the right one,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Guess I should’ve hidden it better.”