Chapter 2
Sebastian
Istride down the corridor, my footsteps echoing against the polished linoleum like metronomes counting off my irritation.
The interaction with Dr. Phillips keeps replaying in my mind—her flushed face, that stubborn lift of her chin when she said she'd do it again.
I hate that part of me almost believes her.
Almost respects it. Almost wants to see what other rules she'd break given half the chance.
This is precisely the kind of complication I don't need on my service.
"Walking that fast, someone might think you're running away from something. Or someone."
I don't need to turn around to know it's Arjun. His voice carries that particular blend of amusement and judgment that only comes from knowing someone too long to bother with politeness.
"I have rounds," I say, not slowing down.
Arjun catches up anyway, falling into step beside me. His glasses catch the light as he tilts his head to study my expression. "So I heard there was quite the show in the lobby this morning. A redheaded doctor performing unauthorized CPR, straddling a patient on a gurney... Very dramatic."
My jaw tightens reflexively. "Hospital gossip travels at the speed of light, I see."
"Supersonic, when it involves the great Dr. Walker getting his protocols questioned by a new fellow." Arjun's smirk is audible in his voice. "You should be thanking her for saving that man's life, not biting her head off."
"I wasn't aware that proper hospital procedure was optional for incoming fellows."
"Come on, Sebastian." Arjun touches my arm, forcing me to stop walking. "Mr. Daniels would be dead right now if she hadn't stepped in. His wife called to thank the hospital already."
Something twists in my chest—irritation, maybe. Or something else I don't care to examine. I check my watch instead. "She acted without credentials, without authorization, without—"
"Without letting a man die in the lobby," Arjun cuts in. "Very inconsiderate of her."
I shoot him a glare. "You think this is funny."
"I think you're being ridiculous." He leans against the wall, studying me with that penetrating gaze that's dissected me since our first year of med school. "Tell me honestly, if you'd been in the lobby and seen someone collapse, would you have waited for paperwork?"
My fingers curl into fists. He knows the answer, which is exactly why he's asking. Bastard.
"That's not the point," I finally say.
"No, the point is you're being unnecessarily harsh on someone who did exactly what any decent doctor would do." He crosses his arms. "Including you."
I resume walking, needing to move, to put physical distance between myself and this conversation. "She created a liability issue for the hospital."
"She created a pulse for a patient who didn't have one." Arjun keeps pace, undeterred. "Since when did you start caring more about hospital bureaucracy than medicine?"
The question hits too close to home. I make a sharp turn into a quieter hallway and lower my voice.
"Since I became responsible for training four new fellows who need to understand that this isn't a free-for-all.
One of them gets a permanent position. The rest don't. They need to understand the expectations from day one. "
"And your expectation is what? That they should let patients die rather than break protocol?"
"My expectation is that they recognize the chain of command."
Arjun's eyebrows rise over the rim of his glasses. "Ah, I see. This isn't about protocol. This is about her challenging you."
My mouth opens to deny it, then closes. I adjust my collar instead, suddenly aware of how tight it feels.
"Interesting," he murmurs, watching me like I'm a rare specimen. "She's gotten under your skin already. That's a record."
"She has not gotten under my skin." The words come out too quick, too defensive. I modulate my tone. "She's simply a complication I don't need when I'm trying to run a department and a fellowship program."
"A complication." Arjun repeats the word with a faint smile. "Is that what we're calling attractive, competent women who don't immediately defer to you these days?"
Something hot flares behind my sternum. "I didn't say she was attractive."
"You didn't have to." The fucker’s smile widens. "Your face did that for you."
"What exactly are you implying?"
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are still dancing with amusement. "Just that I know you, Sebastian. I know when something, or someone, gets to you. And Dr. Phillips? She's definitely gotten to you."
My expression hardens. "You're reading too much into a simple disciplinary interaction."
"Am I?" Arjun tilts his head. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a man who's just had his carefully controlled world tilted on its axis."
The assessment is too close to the truth.
Something about Dr. Phillips had indeed unsettled me from the moment I saw her performing compressions in the lobby.
Not just her disregard for protocol—though that was certainly part of it—but the fierce determination in her eyes when she'd looked up at me.
The way she hadn't backed down. The unwavering certainty that she was right.
It reminded me of someone I used to be. Before Debra. Before I learned the cost of letting people get too close.
"She's reckless," I finally say. "Impulsive. Operating on instinct rather than procedure."
"Some would call that courage," my supposed friend counters. "Medicine isn't just about following flowcharts, Sebastian. You used to know that."
The implied criticism stings. "I know exactly what medicine is about. Which is why I need fellows who understand boundaries."
"Boundaries." he slowly repeats the word. "And that's really all this is about? Professional boundaries?"
Before I can answer, my pager beeps. Grateful for the interruption, I check it. "I need to get to the lab. Results on Ms. DuBois."
Arjun studies me for a moment longer, then nods. "Go. Run away from this conversation. But Sebastian?"
I pause, already half-turned to leave.
"Try not to crush that girl's spirit on her first day just because she makes you feel something you're not ready to examine."
I could argue. Could tell him he's wrong, that Dr. Phillips is nothing but trouble with a medical license. That whatever I feel toward her is purely professional frustration.
But Arjun would see through it. He always does.
So I nod curtly and turn to go, feeling his knowing smirk following me down the hall like a silent accusation.
As I walk away, I try to push thoughts of Dr. Phillips from my mind—her fierce green eyes, the escaped curl that had brushed her flushed cheek, the steady confidence in her hands as she worked to save a life.
Trouble. That's all she is. All she can be.
I repeat it to myself like a diagnosis I need to memorize, even as something deeper whispers that I might be wrong.
***
Cheryl's room sits at the far end of the wing, away from the constant beeping and bustle of the nurses' station.
I pause at the threshold, taking in the transformation she's managed in the standard-issue hospital space.
A silk scarf drapes over the harsh lamp, casting the room in a warm glow that softens the clinical edges.
Photos line the windowsill—younger versions of Cheryl in various dance poses, limbs extended in perfect lines that defy gravity.
The familiar scent of lavender essential oil battles valiantly against the antiseptic hospital smell.
It's amazing how quickly patients try to reclaim these sterile spaces, to press their identities into rooms designed to be impersonal.
Cheryl herself looks more fragile today, propped against a stack of pillows that make her seem smaller than yesterday.
Her once-athletic frame has thinned considerably over the past two weeks.
The bones of her wrists jut sharply as she turns the page of her worn paperback, a raunchy romance if the shirtless man on the cover is anything to go by.
Her silver-blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face in a way that's deliberately elegant despite her circumstances.
She looks up as I enter, those sharp eyes missing nothing. "You look like you've been chewing on lemons, Dr. Walker. Bad morning?"
I approach her bed, reaching for the chart hanging at the foot. "Good morning to you too, Ms. DuBois."
"Cheryl," she corrects for perhaps the twentieth time as she sets her book aside. "After two weeks of you prodding at me, I think we've earned first names, don't you?"
"Hospital policy," I respond automatically, though it's more habit than adherence to rules at this point.
She watches me review her chart, her head tilting slightly. "Someone's got you worked up today. A woman, if I had to guess."
I glance up, keeping my expression neutral. "And what makes you think that?"
"That particular tightness around your jaw." She gestures vaguely toward my face. "I've seen it on practically every male dancer I've ever worked."
I return to the chart, noting the overnight vitals with a frown. Her temperature spiked again around midnight. "Your imagination is remarkably active for someone who's been confined to a hospital bed."
"My body may be failing, but my powers of observation remain intact." Her smile turns wry. "What else do I have to do besides analyze the micro-expressions of my doctors? It's better entertainment than daytime television."
I move to check her IV line, noting the fresh bag of fluids. "Have you been able to keep anything down today?"
The shift to medical questions sobers her slightly. "Toast, for about twenty minutes this morning. Then the usual drama." She gestures toward the bathroom with a graceful flick of her wrist. "The nurses have started a betting pool on whether I'll make it through a full meal by the end of the week."
"And did you place a bet?" I ask, my fingers pressing gently against her wrist to take her pulse manually, despite the monitors tracking it.
"Of course. Five dollars says Wednesday lunch stays put." Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips, a bit too fast. "I've always been an optimist."
I release her wrist and note the reading in her chart. "The new antiemetics aren't helping?"
"They help for a few hours, then it's back to the races." She watches me record the information. "Still no diagnosis, I take it?"
The question carries a forced lightness that doesn't match the concern in her eyes. Two weeks of tests, and we're still guessing at shadows.
"We're working on it," I say, more gently than I normally would. "The lab is done with your latest bloodwork and the CT scan showed some potential areas of interest."
"Potential areas of interest," she repeats. "That's a delightfully vague way of saying you're still stumped."
I almost smile at her directness. Almost. "I prefer to think of it as methodically eliminating possibilities."
"A process of negation leading to truth. Very Zen of you." The teasing edge returns to her voice. "And very evasive."
I check the rest of her vitals, noting each one in the chart with precision. Her blood pressure is lower than I'd like. The weight loss is becoming concerning—nearly fifteen pounds in two weeks. Her body is slowly turning against itself while we chase diagnostic ghosts.
"Your potassium is low," I tell her. "We'll need to supplement that."
"Will it stop the tremors?" She holds out her hand, which shakes visibly. "They're getting worse in the mornings."
I make another note. "It might help. How's the numbness in your feet?"
"Advancing to my calves now." She demonstrates by tapping her leg. "I can feel pressure, but not temperature. Tested it with an ice chip this morning."
"You shouldn't be conducting your own medical experiments," I say, though I'm secretly impressed by her methodical approach.
"Says the man who's using me as a medical mystery for his team to solve." Her smile takes the sting from the words. "Speaking of which, when do I get to meet these new fellows I've heard about?”
"I'll be bringing the new diagnostic team by later today," I say. "They'll be reviewing your case."
Her face brightens with genuine interest. "Fresh eyes. Fresh minds. Good. Maybe one of them will see what everyone's been missing."
There's hope in her voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable.
I feel the weight of it, the responsibility.
Cheryl DuBois has become more than just a case to me over these two weeks—not that I'd ever admit it out loud.
Something about her reminds me of my mother—what little I remember of her.
The same grace under pressure, the same sharp humor masking fear.
"That's the plan," I say, closing her chart. "Four new perspectives on your case."
"Four? My, aren't I special." She adjusts her position slightly, wincing with the movement. "Will you warn them that I bite, or let them discover that for themselves?"
"I think they should experience the full Cheryl DuBois effect without preparation."
This draws a genuine laugh from her, followed by a grimace as the movement pulls at something painful. "How kind of you to provide such an educational opportunity."
I step closer, instinctively adjusting her pillows to better support her back. It's a small gesture, one I wouldn't make with most patients, but Cheryl has a way of dismantling professional distance without seeming to try.
"You should rest before the interrogation begins," I tell her, stepping back once she's comfortable.
"I'll practice my mysterious patient routine," she says, settling against the pillows. "Maybe throw in a few cryptic statements about past lives to really keep them guessing."
I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the frame. "Try not to terrorize them too much. I need them functional."
"No promises, Dr. Walker." Her eyes, bright with mischief despite her pallor, follow me.
As I leave her room, I can't help but wonder how Dr. Phillips will interact with Cheryl. Two sharp minds, both unafraid to speak their truth. It could be illuminating.
Or completely disastrous.
Either way, I have a feeling today is about to get much more complicated.