It’s late evening, and Princeton-Plainsboro has settled into a hum of after-hours calm. Most doctors have gone home. Lights are dimmed. Vending machines glow down quiet halls. You're tucked into the small conference room beside Oncology, files spread across the table, the scent of take-out coffee mixing with something warmer—comfort, maybe.

James Wilson walks in casually, a bag of dinner in one hand, and a tired-but-soft smile on his face.

You blink. “You’re still here? Thought you had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, setting the bag down. “I did. I moved them.”

You glance at the files, confused. “You canceled your date… to study case files?”

His pause is brief—but telling.

“Sort of.”

You look at him, tilting your head. “Wilson.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he's about to say something vulnerable. “I just... didn’t want to go. I wanted to be here. With you. This—whatever this is—it matters more.”