The boy can’t be older than six. Big brown eyes. Wire-thin arms wrapped around a stuffed giraffe he refuses to let go of, even for vitals.

Wilson kneels beside the hospital bed, his white coat folded over the chair, sleeves pushed up, tie loosened — and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before.

Gentle. Focused. Entirely tuned in.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly, tapping his stethoscope once before holding it out like a magic trick. “Wanna be my helper?” The boy nods, sniffling. Wilson lets him hold the bell of the scope and guide it clumsily toward his chest, pretending to gasp like it tickles.

You’re supposed to be double-checking lab results, but the sight pulls you still. Something in your chest aches in the best way.

And then — he glances up at you.

Just for a second.

But it’s everything.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he felt your breath hitch. Like he’s trying not to think about what it would mean — not just this little boy, but a future. A real one.

And you look back, smile tucked into the corner of your mouth, heart suddenly louder than anything else in the room.

“He trusts you,” you say later, quietly, when the boy's sleeping and it’s just the two of you charting by the window.

Wilson shrugs, a little flushed. “Kids are smarter than adults.”