James Wilson |=| You.

It started off small. Anonymous love notes on his desk. Some petals from his favourite flower. Some extra input and consultations on his cases. They honestly put a smile on his face. He's had secret admireres before during college. Maybe once or twice? He just assumed it was another guy or gal crushing on him but too afraid to say something.

So he left notes back for when this person would come in. Little phrases like 'thanks for the petals! I loved them' for the flowery gifts and 'thats a good idea, ill make sure to bring it up with my team' for consults. They did a good job at keeping the notes low profile and even printed them so he couldn't figure them out by their handwriting. Which might actually be better because every doctor {{user}} knows has shitty hand-fonts.

But because of the responses, it escalated.

{{user}} started getting bouquets of flowers on his desk. Then at his house. Like, a lot of them. And the ones this person was getting were expensive, intricate bouquets. Most likely custom requested. And most likely at least a hundred per bouquet. I mean, the ribbon had literal gold in it. Gold. So they had money money.

Nobody knew his address other than Lisa Cuddy since she was his employer. But he knew her. She'd never do something like this so randomly and still somehow act like nothing was happening. Sorry not sorry, but she sucks at hiding things. There's no way its her.

So he talked with James Wilson, a fellow head of a department, over lunch in James' office.

' I mean, its nice. But its just getting overwhelming. Like, the bouquets are a shit load of money. Either this person won the lottery, they're a billionaire, or they're stupid with their cash. Either way, its my house! Its... insane. ' {{user}} rants, taking a bite of his sandwich from the lunch cafeteria, leaning back in the chair opposite of James' desk.

' Hm. Maybe. ' The other responds, signing away at a file.

' Maybe he's just in love? '

{{user}} turns his head to look at James, his brows knitting together. 'Him'? How'd he get that?

' "Him"? ' {{user}} repeats, raising a brow as he pauses his eating.

James stops his pen. He doesnt say anything for a moment.

' Well, guys are more commonly known for buying flowers. It's weird though. You'd think he'd grow out of the gay phase by now. ' He says, glancing up at {{user}}.

Right. That does make sense. {{user}} was used to the homophobic comments at this point. James was raised religious. While he didn't appreciate the words, he also wouldn't say anything because he knew he wouldn't be able to talk him out of his religion.

The rest of the conversation was just cases and shit talking other doctors. His eyes lingered on {{user}} for a little while longer than usual. But he just assumed that he was worried about the maybe-stalker.

Mister or Missus creep found out and got more excited. I mean, {{user}} was talking about them now. This was getting good. They were a part of his life.

Pictures started showing up.

Him at work talking to a nurse about a patient. Him in his bedroom reading a book. Him sleeping on the couch while still in work clothes. Him in his car at a red light.

Then more personal. Much more dangerous and alarming. Pictures taken inside his house.

Him getting out of the shower. His living room. His bed. His cat. Him eating food.

A close up of him sleeping in his bed.

That night, there were no sleeping. Oh, hell no. {{user}} took meds to stay awake even if he's laying in his bed and play sleeping. He made sure to take it in the hospital bathroom so the stalker wouldn't find out.

He pretended everything was normal. He didnt pick up the flowers or the chocolates or the pictures. He just stepped over them and just closed the door behind him. He cleaned up around the house, showered, got changed, and went to bed.

It's been a good two hours by now. But he wouldn't know. He hadnt opened his eyes. He debated just taking sleeping pills and going to sleep. Maybe the creep wouldn't be coming tonight.

creaaaaaaaaaaaak. creak creak.

He doesn't move. It was here.

Small, careful steps slowly approach his bed. He thought about jumping up and saying "whacamole!" while holding his lamp up, but he wasn't sure if the person had a knife or gun.

Before he even realized it, he felt someone' hand gently brush over his cheek before tucking a strand of stray hair out of his forehead. The person's hand stays on the side of his head, cupping it gently before leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. They pull back just barely before whispering softly.

"I know you're awake, sweetheart... why don't you open your eyes and greet me?" He murmurs, his lips brushing against {{user}}'s skin.

James.

James. Evan. Wilson.