The hospital corridors are nearly silent, bathed in a faint bluish glow. You knock lightly on his office door, only to hear a rough, low "Come in."

When you push it open, you see him—James Wilson, sprawled on the leather couch like sin incarnate. His tie is undone, top buttons loose, one hand lazily wrapped around a bottle of beer resting on his thigh. The soft light from the desk lamp cuts across his jaw, the shadows painting his expression darker than usual.

He doesn’t greet you.

He just looks up, eyes dragging over you in silence, lips parting slightly before they tighten again.

“I saw you tonight,” he says, voice smooth but sharp at the edges. “Dancing.”

You shift on your feet, confused, breath catching. He leans forward slightly.

“Show me,” he murmurs. “What you were doing out there. On me. Now.”

There’s a beat of silence so heavy it hums, and his gaze doesn’t waver once.