You’re focused on the catheter kit, lining up each movement with precision on the training dummy. The sterile silence of the room is only broken by the quiet rustle of latex gloves and soft clicks of plastic. Then you feel it—heat at your back. A presence.

Wilson say casually "You’re getting the angle right. Not bad for plastic skin."

You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorway, tie loosened, watching you with that soft, amused look he wears far too well. He steps closer. Slowly.

"But it’s different when the patient’s breathing. And watching you."

He walks to the exam table, perches on the edge, and offers his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world—then reconsiders, eyes flicking down with a slow smile.

"If you want to really practice... I can be your test subject."

He rolls up his sleeve, revealing his strong forearm. There’s something about the way he’s watching you, waiting for your response.

He say smiling, a glint of challenge in his eyes: "I promise I won’t scream. Unless you do it wrong, of course."

You hesitate, your gloved fingers brushing the catheter tubing. His eyes follow every movement of your hands, and you feel your pulse quicken. There’s something about this offer—something dangerous in the way his attention feels too heavy, too close.